


Struggle of the Proletariat

by KissingForeignFishes



Category: South Park, X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Bullying, Crushes, Dorms, F/M, Fantastic Racism, Humans are Bastards, Kyle is oblivious to everything, M/M, Mentions of the X-Men and Shield are in this universe, Multi, Mutant Academy, Mutant Hate, Mutant Politics, Mutant Powers, Mutants, Original Character Death(s), Possible smut later on, Potential character injury/death later on, Roommates, Science Fiction, Song Lyrics, Unrequited Love, mutant AU, political activism, slight crossover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-19
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-21 17:32:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 30,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2476490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KissingForeignFishes/pseuds/KissingForeignFishes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some people are born different. Others are born extraordinary. And then there are those who have the ability to shake the earth to its core. Mutant/X-Men AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude - Normal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been an idea of mine for a long time now, and I figured, what the hell, might as well just do it. Warning: Not only do I not own these properties, but I'm also not very knowledgeable about the X-Men universe. I've done my research, but I've only seen the films, so bear with me.

 

* * *

 

Leopold Stotch didn’t mind that he didn’t have very many friends. With the temperament of sunshine, he didn’t mind much of anything. Not his parents, not the kids at school, not the nickname Butters and not his own feelings of inadequacy. He never got along with his peers, or, more specifically, they never got along with him. It wasn’t all that bad. There were snickers and pushes and, worst of all, punches, but Butters never let anyone get him down. Not even on the very worst of days.

 

If anything did bother him, however, it was that he had... something, that his parents called “not normal.” The bad kind of “not normal.” It was something that had never really happened until Butters was ten, only three week away from being eleven. Often on his own, Butters learned how to play by himself since the kids at school declared him the King of Faggots and avoided him completely. His hamsters were great companions, as was Dougie, the younger boy who lived the next block down, but mostly it was just Butters.

 

And it was in one of those moments when he figured out his not-so-normal something. He had the ability to make his own friends, by simply concentrating.

 

The first time it happened, it was an accident. Up in his room alone, grounded for forgetting to take the garbage out, Butters had been working on his homework when an out of the blue dizziness hit him hard. It got so bad he had to close his eyes and take a few deep breaths, releasing his hold on his pencil and rubbing his forehead with the tips of his fingers. Butters had a few allergies and some experience with sinuses and migraines, but this force was something new entirely. The sharp, sudden weight on his head, however, was gone as quickly as it had come, and once it had passed entirely, he returned to his homework, only to notice something incredible.

 

“Oh my gosh!” Butters cried out. The pencil he’d been holding, the one he’d dropped when the strange feeling hit him, was moving back and forth on his own, rolling its way around his desk and spinning about in sloppy, confused circles. Stunned into silence, Butters sat with his mouth agape before rubbing his eyes with balled fists and wondering if he was really seeing this or not.

 

The pencil had moved farther now, past his sprawled-out math book and beyond without any indication that it was going to stop. Butters laid his hand flat against the desk, making sure the surface hadn’t tilted at any point to make this happen, and as it approached the edge, Butters jumped up from his chair and caught it in his fingers before it got the chance to fall. Everything felt a bit dizzy again, like the world had just kicked itself into a faster pace and had left Butters behind to get the air knocked out of him.

 

“What in the Sam Hill is going on?” the blond asked himself, and maybe the question was even directed at the pencil, as well. When he inspected it, however, it seemed that the burst of movement had died completely, and that the average orange pencil was, well, just an average orange pencil. It wasn’t moving, anymore, so whatever had happened to it had either passed or had just been in Butters’ imagination.

 

“Wait a second…” With a frown, Butters moved his focus to the hand he’d been writing with. That feeling, the weight. Maybe that had something to do with it.

 

He quickly snatched the pencil up again, closed his eyes, and concentrated on bringing the feeling back. He took a long, deep breath before gritting his jaw and clutching the utensil with as much strength as he could muster. Another full minute passed, but, as he opened his eyes once again and everything returned to normal, the pencil was as lifeless as it had been before. It was put on the desk again, but when nothing happened, Butters frowned and slumped back into his chair.

 

“Aw, dang it,” he muttered, laying his forehead against the desk and curling his arms over his head. For a second there, he thought he’d done something weird, something different. Something not normal, but that excitement now seemed to be misplaced. His heartbeat was calming down as the pencil lay discarded next to him, and Butters only sat up when the sensation of movement again demanded his attention.

 

He was met with the sight of the pencil again moving, this time in circles, as if he’d spun it, and Butters lit up with a sloppy grin and a new light in his eyes.

 

“You... you’re moving! It worked!” he cried as he snatched the pencil up, making sure that it was still spinning about in his hands as he sprinted from his room and descended the stairs. “Oh my gosh, oh my gosh!”

 

In the excitement, however, he hadn’t had the time to consider how his parents were going to react to whatever it was that he was doing.

 

The Stotch’s home in Richmond, Virginia was quaint and nothing much to brag about, but Butters loved it. Money troubles had forced the family to sell their beloved house in Kawaii, but the two story home in the mainland was close to Butters’ paternal grandma and far away from his maternal grandmother, so it worked out pretty well, at least for him. His parents often complained about it, but Butters was content where life had lead him.

 

Pencil in hand, he made his way down the stairs, and into the living room where his mom and dad were watching the nightly news. Butters was meant to be doing his homework and wasn’t supposed to be leaving his room or bothering his parents, not for anything, and while he knew he could potentially get in trouble, he figured whatever this was could be the exception. His mom and dad were sitting far apart on different couches, both with mugs of tea in their hands, when their son burst through the doorway and grabbed at their attention.

 

“Mom! Dad!” he called as he ran towards the couch, almost running into the coffee table in his excitement. “Look at this! Isn’t it cool?” He held up his open palms as his parents , the pencil practically dancing, and decided that putting it on the coffee table would allow them a better view. His father’s face fell almost instantly as he noticed what it was that his son wanted him to see, and his mother backed up into the couch as the writing utensil moved about on its own.

 

“Butters, what is that?!” she asked, eying the pencil as though it were a snake poised to strike.

 

“It’s my pencil,” Butters grinned, blissfully unaware of his parents’ horrified expressions. “I made it dance, see?”

 

“Butters, how did you learn how to do this?” his dad asked, and Butters shrugged.

 

“I don’t know, dad. I just sort of did it. Isn’t it neat?”

 

Neither parent spoke as they gawked between their child and the animated object in his hands, and with the growing discomfort surrounding him, Butters’ smile faded and the pencil ceased its movements altogether. It clanked against the coffee table’s surface, rolling a bit before its momentum died down.

 

“Go to your room, Butters,” his father eventually instructed, his expression solemn. “Mom and I need some time to talk alone.”

 

They hadn’t reacted in the way Butters had expected them to. He wasn’t trying to scare them or upset them, but he clearly had, and he wasn’t really sure how or why. Sure it was strange and unusual, but nothing bad had happened. He was special, wasn’t he?

 

“Well, alright then.” He took back his pencil and wandered back to the staircase, a heavy feeling in his stomach. He marched up and pretended to enter his room by closing the door and sitting at the top step so he could hear his parents conversing in the kitchen below. Their voices were quiet and muffled, but he could clearly hear what they were saying.

 

“I knew it,” his father was saying. “I knew it, Linda. I was afraid your father would rub off on him. And now look what’s happened-”

 

“My father?” his mom interrupted. “How do we know it wasn’t someone on your side of the family?”

 

“Because I don’t have any goddamn freaks in my family, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let my own child become one!” Butters had heard his father curse before, and every single time, it sent a wave of absolute dread through him. He’d done something wrong, and his dad just kept sounding more and more angry. Everything was so confusing, and Butters sat there with only his thoughts, wondering what he’d done to upset his parents so much.

 

“He’s your son, Steven! It doesn’t matter where it came from, does it?” The conversation suddenly stopped and for a solid minute, there was absolutely no sound. Butters held his breath and wrapped his arms around his middle, knowing he wouldn’t be able to move until something happened.

 

Finally, he heard his mom ask, “What should we do?” His dad let out a heavy sigh, and with that, Butters stood up and silently crept back into his room.

 

“Maybe there’s a way to get rid of it.”

 

They ended up sending Butters to a camp sponsored by a local church called “Healing Hands.” He was ushered into a basement by the counselors after leaving his parents to sign him in. These people made no move to touch him, but Butters didn’t notice. He was too excited to be going to camp and getting out of school for a whole week.

 

The room he was lead to was brightly colored and covered with posters that only had positive things to say. Probably a youth group center for the church.

 

“Name?” Butters was asked by the woman who stood at the front door. She smiled down at him, but kept her distance.

 

“My name’s Butters!” was the cheerful answer she got, and while she frowned slightly at the name, she still scribbled it on a nametag and stuck it to the blond’s shirtfront.

 

“Alright Butters,” she said, looking about the room. It was full of kids, most of whom were eying their shoes or the floor rather than one another, and there was little to no talking between anyone but the adults. “Looks like there’s an open seat next to Bradley. Why don’t you go sit next to him.”

 

“Alright, then,” Butters said, following her pointing finger. The room was wide and chilled by an air conditioner to the point of being too cold, and a stage with a podium and a walkway was in the center surrounded by fold-out plastic chairs. Many of the seats were full already, and Butters awkwardly scootched past other kids who wouldn’t even look up at him to get to the stop he was told to go.

 

Bradley was the boy with moppy dirt-blond hair, sitting alone while he made himself smaller in his seat and chewed on his fingernails. He looked terribly sad, which only confused Butters all the more.

 

“Hi,” he said as he approached, making the boy jump. “I’m Butters. What’s your name?”

 

Bradley’s eyes met Butters and the contrast was instant. When Butters plopped himself in the uncomfortable plastic chair next to him, Bradley shuffled slightly in his seat.

 

“Bradley,” he muttered under his breath.

 

At that moment, the stage was lit up and a man wearing washed-out blue jeans and a green camp HH t-shirt stepped out from backstage. None of the other lights dimmed, and when Butters peered around the room, he saw that a few of the others around him still wouldn’t even look up. “Alright kids,” the man said, sounding far more light hearted than Butters would have thought. “My name’s Chris. Who’s ready to start camp Healing Hands?”

 

Only a few of the kids in the audience said anything, Butters himself joining in. Bradley was not one of them, and when the man began to talk, Butters decided to talk to Bradley instead.

 

“Can you do things, too?” Butters whispered.

 

“Uh. Yeah,” was all the response he got, so Butters tried again.

 

“Well, what can you do?” The chipper blond leaned forward in his chair, closer to Bradley, his eyes bugging out with his overabundant good cheer.

 

“Um...” Bradley stuttered, eyes nervously swaying from side to side until again settling on Butters. The hyper boy sat patiently, waiting with a wide smile, one that Bradley eventually returned. Closing his eyes, Bradley’s form, aside from his clothes, faded to the point of being transparent, only for a moment, before popping back.

 

“Wow!” Butters gasped, a genuine awe lighting his expression up even more. Bradley squirmed in his seat, awkwardly taking the complement in.

 

“No one else likes it,” he muttered back, his smile faltering. “My mom and dad said it’s really bad.”

 

“What?” Heads turned at the volume and the preacher stopped talking, but Butters failed to notice. “It’s so cool, though!”

 

A counselor leaning up against the door a few feet away approached quickly, leaning down and clasping a rough hand onto Butters’ shoulder. “Boys, stop that! We’re here to keep that from happening, now shush up and listen.”

 

The command got everyone’s attention, and the other kids kept quiet and looked back up to the stage as Bradley silently cowered in his seat. Seeing his friend go quiet, Butters let his smile fall as he also moved to also look at the front of the room.

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

Camp Healing Hands didn’t work, since not two weeks later, Stephen caught Butters in a heated conversation about Hello Kitty: Island Adventure with his moving lamp. There were other things done; therapy and other camps and even a few prescribed medications, but Butter’s special trick of making his own friends never went away.

 

Even two years later, Butters and Bradley still kept in contact with one another. Bradley came out to Butters about being gay long before he did his parents, and the two supported each other through nothing more than emails and texts, since the distance between Butters’ home in Richmond and Bradley’s in Abingdon kept them apart otherwise. Things were difficult for Bradley, Butters quickly learned into their friendship. His parents were even worse than Butters’, mean to him and aggressive, and Bradley was too timid to properly stand up for himself. When they would talk online, he’d tell Butters about the bullies at school, the people who made fun of him and his power, and how awful it all was, and Butters would assure his friend that it would all end up alright.

 

It was a brisk Autumn morning, however, when Linda got a call on their landline with someone asking for her son. Butters scurried into the kitchen to answer, got the message that was intended for him, and hung up without a word.

 

“What’s wrong, Butters?” his mother asked when Butters hung up, his face free of the smile he usually had.

 

“Bradley’s dead.” A few tears slid down his cheeks before his eyes overflowed, and he broke down. “He killed himself, mom.”

 

It was okay that Butters didn’t have very many friends, because he made most of them himself.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Kenny McCormick is the dictionary definition of a Hedonist, which comes as far from a bombshell as news could come. The fact that, when told this, he actually had to look up the definition of “Hedonist” is not much of a surprise, either. If there was one thing everyone knew about Kenny McCormick, it was that his motto on life is that drugs, girls and poptarts are all one would ever really need to get by.

 

Because Kenny McCormick believed life was too short. Presumably, because he’d died about twenty-seven times and counting by seventeen.

 

You’re supposed to bleed, Kenny had learned, if something split your skin and the veins beneath it. That’s what was supposed to happen, but it wasn’t until he was older that Kenny realized he hadn’t seen his own blood for a long time, not for years. His parents must not have noticed, and neither had Kevin, and Karen wasn’t supposed to notice things like that, anyway.

 

Kenny had lived his whole life in Sterling, Colorado, and in that time, he was regarded as something of a joke. Thinking back, he couldn’t even fathom how he’d managed to stay in school up until sophomore year, or how his parents had evaded arrest for as long as they had. Their homelife was a disaster, which might have been why people stopped talking to Kenny around seventh grade. Parents knew about the nefarious shit his parents did; the alcoholism, the pot, the employment problems, maybe even the meth, and their children naturally were told to stay clear of the McCormick kids. The only peers that really bothered talking to him on any given day were just interested in if Kenny could get them some free handouts or not. The town was a shithole, yes, but Kenny was considered the bottom of the food chain in this particular shithole, which had always rubbed him the wrong way.

 

There were other things that frightened people off, too. Kenny was a quiet guy, and not in the “hopefully he won’t grow up to shoot up a mall” kind of quiet. The bored, thoughtful kind of quiet. It didn’t help that he kept to himself almost everywhere, not just school. There was never much he wanted to say, and never really anyone he wanted to say things to. Although with a good number of C’s on his report cards to balance out the classes he did fail, his level of give-a-damn far surpassed his brother or parents.

 

But then he couldn’t bleed, and Kenny decided to try seeing if he could. He’d cut himself with a knife, sliced up his legs with a switchblade, and, when that didn’t work, he jumped off his roof. The gashes he got along his back were almost instantly gone and his spinal cord snapped back into place all by itself, not a drop of blood left over on his clothes.

 

It became a ritual of sorts for him after that; seeing what would make him bleed. Being a thirteen-year-old, Kenny was more awed by his abilities than fearful of them, but that all quickly changed after three years of getting bored.

 

The cheap watch his father had left next to the bathroom sink read 3:42 am as Kenny starred his reflection down. He’d checked to make sure everything was quiet; his mom was asleep in the bedroom, his dad off for some night shift, Kevin was off wherever he was doing whatever he wanted, and Karen sleeping soundly in her bed. He’d been putting the idea out of his head for a while, but it always managed to crawl its way back no matter what.

 

It made sense, that if his bones could instantly snap back into place and his skin could stitch itself back together, why couldn’t a fatal wound do the same? It was stupid, but Kenny needed to test it.

 

He took out his pocket knife and slit it across his throat and everything fell into darkness-

 

-Before he immediately came to in his bed. The neck wound was gone, and making his way into the bathroom, there wasn’t a single drop of blood anywhere; not the sink, not the walls, not the towels, nothing. The knife was found in the covers of his bed, and Kenny slid to the bathroom floor and wondered for a split second if he was God.

 

Or maybe just a god. Either way.

 

And it was there on a normal Sunday morning, sitting in a pile of dirty laundry on the bathroom floor and touching his neck, that Kenny realized for the first time, for real, that he couldn’t die.

 

No one really noticed Kenny much, anyways, so keeping it a secret wasn’t that hard. As long as the world was kind and he could avoid any major accidents where he’d get maimed in front of other people, he’d be fine.

 

He watched his body more, gave himself papercuts and saw his skin magically stitch itself up, like he was made of sentient twine. Deliberate papercuts grew to hitting himself with a baseball bat to even slicing one of his hands almost off his body completely. Regardless of injury, everything healed, naturally and without him even doing anything beyond breathe and keep existing, and not even a single scar was left on his body, test after test after test. Even his hand somehow managed to grow back.

 

Kenny McCormick was fucking invincible. And, for a while, he’d just experiment, see what he could withstand. There was nothing else he could do, or that he wanted to do. He was a freak, the kind you see on TV, and he intended on keeping it his own little secret.

 

Two months later, the winter of his Sophomore year, and he made the mistake of doing a test where someone finally saw him. He’d gone off into the thicket of trees next to a stream a quarter of a mile away from home with the intent of shooting himself. Sure, it would hurt for a second, but it wouldn’t last very long. Kevin went out with the family shotgun all the time to shoot bottles and squirrels with friends, so seeing Kenny do the same didn’t alarm his parents in the slightest. Not that they would have noticed, anyway.

 

There was no hesitation as Kenny put the tunnel to his forehead and fired into his skull, the metal bullet breaking out at the tip of his head and leaving his body completely. Kenny assumed there was some blood, some bits of his brain, but, dropping to the ground, there was nothing.

 

Nothing but a voice calling out. _“Hey! Christ, kid just shot himself!”_

 

It was that sound that made Kenny’s blood run cold, and his eyes immediately opened. _Oh god, please don’t let them see me. Please don’t-_

 

His gaze focused and he sat up instantly, face-to-face with two boys he vaguely recognized. They looked older than him, maybe by a few years, both ragged and raised in the backwoods, and one of them was holding his shotgun. Their expressions were mystified and horror-struck, skin as white as milk, and Kenny figured he must have looked the same. He got up onto his feet, and at the sight of his brain courteously putting itself back in working order, the boys smirked. Kenny backed up a few steps, knowing a threat when he saw one.

 

“Hey, friend. You know guns is dangerous, right?” the taller one grinned, tossing the shotgun back and forth between his hands casually.

 

“Give that back, it’s not yours,” Kenny demanded, but he was ignored.

 

“We watched the blood go back in your head,” the shorter one said, brows narrowing. They were moving in on him, dangerous and with some ugly intent.

 

“Fucking mutant freak, huh?” They laughed, and before anything could happen, Kenny turned tail and fled, climbing like a mad animal through the thickets and bushes. He needed to put as much distance between him and these lunatics as possible, but they were fast. These two were practically raised in these woods by the look of them, rednecks who knew how to hunt. Before long, they’d caught up to Kenny and tackled him off his feet. It was the short one who got him down, and when the guy climbed off him, he sent a swift kick to Kenny’s ribs, knocking the air out of him.

 

“Where the fuck do you think you’re goin’?” the elder laughed as he ran up behind the other, shotgun still in hand.

 

“Yeah, I thought we was hangin’ out.” They laughed at that, and Kenny was normal before long. His cracked ribs fixed themselves and the pain in his lungs died, but he was still in trouble.

 

He tried to stand up, and when it looked like another kick was coming his way, he screamed, “Don’t fucking touch me!”

 

“Aw, c’mon. We were just curious,” the shorter one snorted.

 

“Yeah.” They kept snickering as the shotgun was almost playfully aimed at Kenny, the gun’s tunnel only about a foot away from his forehead. “All we want is to see if you’d survive another bullet through the head, that’s all.”

 

A shot fired and hit the tree just above his head, and Kenny couldn’t stop the instinctual flinch. Even if his head grew back, even if the blood was sucked back into his veins and he could snap his bones back into place and he’d just wake up again; death still frightened him. He was supposed to be the master of death, after all, and the idea that it was suddenly in the hands of these two felt eerily like betrayal.

 

“Fucking mutant.” The boys must have moved beyond the hilarity of their attempted murder, as they now scowled down at Kenny, this time kicking him hard in the lower gut. “Everyone in town wants your kind out, so why doncha go while you still can.”

 

What happened next was something Kenny would have never in a million years predicted. A violent wave of something sharp and light echoed around them, striking his assailants and forcing them to howl in pain.

 

“What the fuck was that?” one asked, and when it happened again, they scanned the surroundings until they realized they were not alone.

 

“It’s another one!” Kenny heard them shout as they sprinted from him to whoever this ‘other one’ was, murder in their eyes. The lights happened again, and as Kenny’s body fixed itself, he sat up and watched as little bolts of lightning again erupted and struck these boys.

 

“Shit!” one of them cursed. “That fucking hurts, asshole! Motherfucker!” Kenny strained from his safe distance to see who his savior was, and got his first clue when he heard the stranger’s voice cry out.

 

 _“Get the fuck away from him!”_ Kenny scrambled to recognize this voice. Something about it was familiar, he’d definitely heard it before, but where?

 

“Fucking mutant scum!” And with that, they were gone, running past Kenny without even looking at him, taking his shotgun with them. Kenny watched it go as they darted into the direction they’d come from, wondering how he’d be getting it back, which he had to do. His body repaired itself but he still felt like shit, and for a moment he sat there on the frozen ground and just breathed, wondering what in God’s name was going to happen to him now.

 

“You okay?” a voice asked, and Kenny opened his eyes to see who it was. The answer he got, however, surprised him far more than he thought it would.

 

“Uh...”

 

Eric Cartman. He was in a different class than Kenny, the two only sharing a few years of elementary school between them, but everyone knew about Eric motherfucking Cartman. This guy was infamous in school, an honest and in-your-face kind of douchebag. Nobody liked him and he gladly returned the sentiment with middle fingers and a grin that reached his gums. The guy whose mom really got around. The guy without a dad. The guy who could shock people. Kenny had heard a ton of rumors about the only out mutant in their school, but had never really talked to him up until that point.

 

The brunet’s form was massive in the light of the setting sun, staggering and off-putting. He was short as a kid, Kenny remembered, but puberty had really hit him hard. Whoever his father was, he must have been huge. Kenny still sat in the dirt, eyes wide from shock, as he took in what had happened and watched the two asshole rednecks book it into the thickets before returning his eyes to his bizarre and out-of-the-blue savior.

 

Cartman didn’t reach out his hand for Kenny to take, didn’t even stand close to him. Instead, his gaze stayed firm and oddly serious on the blond, quiet and disinterested. Like he had other plans but had gone out of his way to help and was now expecting a thank you. In the light from the lamp, Kenny saw the other boy’s eyes narrow slightly, waiting impatiently through the hesitation for an answer. With a tiny frown, Kenny picked himself up and leaned against the tree, realizing his very sudden, very strong dizziness and placing a palm into his greasy and unwashed hair. He would have been angry at Cartman’s shitty attitude had the guy not saved him for... whatever reason.

 

“I’m… I’m fine. Thanks.” He stood on still slightly shaking legs and dusted the dirt off his jeans, breathing slowly. The gunshot was still ringing wildly in his ears, and he kept where he was just to keep breathing a bit more.

 

What was weird, though, was that Cartman didn’t move to leave. He kept staring holes into Kenny’s head, waiting for something until Kenny finally heard him ask another question. “So what’d those douchebags want with you?”

 

For a second, Kenny felt like laughing, and although he didn’t, his lips twitched upwards as he opened his eyes and met Cartman’s gaze again. “Wanted to see if I’d survive a bullet through the head.”

 

Because that was why Cartman stepped in. His attackers were calling him mutant scum, and if anyone knew about being called mutant scum, it was Eric Cartman. If Kenny hadn’t been a mutant, if he’d just been someone in a bad situation, then there was no chance that someone like Cartman would have intervened at all. Along with his thoroughly reprehensible disposition and his easily hateable presence, he was the only vocal mutant teenager in town, proud of who he was and infamous for not giving a fuck who disagreed. A mutant living in an almost entirely anti-mutant town with a bitter animosity for the side that greatly outnumbered him. It was a miracle he wasn’t dead yet, especially since his power wasn’t going to grow him back to normal.

 

No, if Kenny was just a normal guy getting mugged or beaten or shot, Cartman wouldn’t have even bothered. But Kenny was a mutant, a freshly soon-to-be outed one who was probably scared and unsure of how anything would work anymore because now everyone would know. Eric Cartman might have just become his only friend, and Kenny realized that Cartman knew that. It’s why he was still standing there. The mere idea sent an army of shivers up Kenny’s spine, and as he turned and started his way home in an exhausted sweat, Cartman spoke again.

 

“Eric Cartman.” He whipped around to face the other boy again. Cartman looked almost scary in the moonlight. His expression didn’t move as he held out his hand for Kenny to shake. “I shock people.”

 

Kenny blinked once, then twice, before untangling his fingers from his frizzy mop of hair and tentatively cupping his palm around Cartman’s, shaking up and then down in one swift motion. “Kenny McCormick, can’t die.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Eric Cartman had always been a very unhappy person. And it wasn’t like it was his fault, either. The only times when he knew he was really mad was when he was around people, normal people, or when someone was talking shit to or about him.

 

For one thing, no one in his life besides his mother and teachers called him by his first name. It was always ‘Cartman’, and while it wasn't something he’d always hated, it built over the years into number one on his list of things that made him mad. Number two was being called fat, and number three was other people, especially his mother.

 

Number four was Sterling, Colorado.

 

It wasn’t the shittiest place to be, but for Cartman, the headline under the town’s welcome sign might as well have read ‘Welcome to Hell On Earth.’ What’s worse is that everyone who lived in his general area regarded mutants as less than human, filled to the brim with hicks and inbred white trash the way it was, and his peers and teachers all looked down on him even before he realized that he could shock people on demand. So when he started using it out of spite, or for fun, everyone only felt more disdain for the fat brunet, and were more vocal about it, too.

 

But Cartman didn’t care. He made the habit of either caring too much or not caring at all, and he grew to be damn proud that he could shoot bouts of electricity from his palms and fingertips. The only person that stood behind him was his mother, who he’d stopped caring about in middle school.

 

To him, it was because no one listened to him. Not a single fucking person; not his mom, not his teachers, not Mr. Kitty or Kenny. Nobody. And for anyone else, the other people who weren’t getting heard, they’d have stages; lonesome, outcasted, bitterness and anger, but Cartman must have had something wrong with his head from day one. Even he knew it in some way. He wasn’t lonely or sad. He’d skipped those steps to make way for all the more bitterness and anger.

 

Eric Cartman had also become Kenny McCormick’s only friend their Sophomore year at school.

 

The McCormick house was in the shittiest part of the city, near the train tracks, and everything smelt like pot. Everything. Kenny snuck a couple beers from the fridge, knowing full well his dad would never bother counting it, anyway. He never had guests over, and Cartman’s presence seemed to be a gaping hole among the sagging furniture and wall decorations that had all been stolen from motels.

 

Cartman took the place on Kenny’s bed, while Kenny accepted it with a frown and a slouch, taking the spot on the floor as they took to the beers and, for Kenny, the playboys he’d also stolen.

 

It was into the second round that Kenny rolled a joint, licking it closed and passing it to Cartman, who readily took it without a thank you of any sort. He flicked his cheap lighter, lit up and inhaled, and Kenny kept himself from laughing when Cartman burst into a furious bout of coughing. He passed it back as Kenny took his hit, reeling back in the comfort they’d come to find in the smell.

 

They both jumped, however, when a somebody knocked at the door.

 

“Who’s in there, Kenny?” It was his father, a person Cartman had only met face-to-face a few times, despite being a common visitor for the past few months. Kenny frowned and sat up, leaning against his wall, hiding the joint behind his back, even though his dad hadn’t even bothered opening the door.

 

“Eric,” he replied in the most normal, not-smoking-pot voice he could muster.

 

Mr. McCormick didn’t respond, but simply walked away, boots clanking down the hallway towards the master bedroom. Kenny’s brows furrowed, his nose wrinkling with some kind of bitterness, as he took another long drag, coughing into a nearby pillow and passing the joint back to Cartman.

 

Kenny’s parents, Cartman mused, had reacted pretty poorly to the reveal that their middle child was some freak with weird powers. The backwoods rednecks that they were, they did not appreciate the potential their son had, just like nobody understood or accepted him. Thinking about it, Cartman really disliked Kenny, may have even hated him, but they were both mutants. Practically brothers in a town that detested the both of them the way it did, and they had to stick together.

 

Kenny had offered Cartman a girly magazine, but the brunet shook his head and held his hand out for the joint instead.

 

“Get that shit away from me,” he mumbled, going back for another inhale as Kenny shrugged and returned to the parade of brunettes and blondes with huge tits that he’d taken from the gas station down the road.

 

It was silent before Cartman started talking, finishing off his beer and glaring off at nothing in particular. “Everyone always fucking lies to me.”

 

The words weren’t really directed at Kenny, not really. When it came to Cartman, it could be anything from a simple observation to a paranoid declaration, and whether or not Cartman wanted Kenny to contribute, or whatever, was beyond either of them. Still, Kenny found it in himself to reply.

 

“I hear ya, man,” he grumbled, sounding sluggish as he reached for the joint and took another drag. It was obvious that no, he didn’t really care.

 

Cartman clicked his tongue and chucked his now empty beer can against the wall opposite him. The impact sent it spiraling under the bed. “And then there’s all this mutation shit.” He paused, looking at the joint between Kenny’s fingers as he snatched it away, again, coughing at the exhale. “I mean, Jesus, I’m so goddamn sick of people always fucking with us just ‘cause we’ve got powers.”

 

“Mmm-hmm,” Kenny replied, only half-listening from beneath his playboy.

 

“I mean, we’re stronger than them. We’re more powerful. So then why the fuck are they calling the shots?”

 

With an irritated sigh, Kenny shoved the magazine off his face and to his knees. He looked up at Cartman as smoke clouded around them, even with the window open.

 

“Not much we can do, dude. Seriously, we might be, like, the only two mutants in town who've gone public.” When Cartman didn’t return the gaze, Kenny’s eyes trailed up to the ceiling as he laid flat on his back, hands covering his stomach. “If there are others, they aren't just gonna come out and join us. Not everyone can survive a shotgun to the head.” He made a snorting sound then. Maybe a laugh or something, even if his lips didn’t move. “Fuck, I still wish no one’d ever found out, really.”

 

Kenny didn't really listen to the things Cartman said, but Cartman knew Kenny wasn't listening. Not like he’d wanted someone to. It didn’t really matter, because, to him, no one had ever listened and the fact that nothing had changed wasn’t news to him. When he was younger and by himself, it was his stuffed animals who listened to him, but they didn’t really. He pretended they did, but that’s all it was. Pretend. Kenny was just like a new stuffed animal.

 

And maybe it was just the Mary Jane, but it was in these moments, getting high and talking while no one even heard him, that Cartman got really angry. The more he thought about things, everything in his life, the angrier he got, even with the marijuana chewing away at his memory.

 

“One day, there won’t be any humans left, anyway.”

 

Kenny didn’t respond, but that was fine. After all, his stuffed animals were all long gone, and he didn't mind the poor smell as much as he thought he would.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Kyle and Isaac ‘Ike’ Broflovski were unusually close for adopted siblings six years apart in age. This they basically accounted to three reasons: reason one, their mother; reason two, their intelligence; and reason three, their blood relations, or lack thereof. Example one was the easiest to figure out if you were acquainted with the Broflovski brothers, while two and three were more, well, personal. Private. Because neither Kyle or Ike had any intention of ever outing themselves as mutants, especially not while they still lived with their parents.

 

Their parents, however, found out soon before the letter came, spring inching its way through the often gray skies of another San Francisco winter as the rain sprinkled outside. Maybe it was out of a sense of boredom that Ike found himself wandering up towards his brother’s room on the second floor of their family’s row home. While it was true that Ike had more friends than anyone else he knew, it was also true that Kyle could count the number of friends he had on one hand. He wasn’t completely anti-social, but after he learned that he could move things with his mind, Kyle started unconsciously shielding himself away from the outside world. Not out a sense of loneliness or whatever, Kyle wasn’t that much of a pussy, but his commitment to staying inside reading was like a hermit, choosing an intellectual life of social exile. And Ike, naturally, saw something wrong with it.

 

It was actually Ike who had discovered his mutation first, Kyle figuring out his own abilities only about two weeks later. Ironically, Kyle’s surfaced after an intense bout of desperation, wanting to one-up Ike who was quite the bragger. They both tended to thrive off a healthy dose of competitiveness. This was where their ties with blood came in, because it was pretty surreal and bizarre that, out of every kid ever filtered through the Canadian Adoption Agency, Kyle got himself a little brother who had a similar oddity that they shared and could bond over. They were similar in many ways, actually. Both were smart, ambitious, easily irritable, and they shared an inexplicable fear of their mother. The mutant thing only added to it, making their weird connection stronger.

 

Ike found Kyle centered in a mass of books and stretched out across his bed. This was not new. Kyle was, after all, the same boy who had his first existential crisis at the age eight. He even swore he’d become a part of the conscious universe for a while afterward. The books he'd surrounded himself with appeared to be on reality and its connections to the conscience mind; Space-Time and Quantum Theory, Taoism and Zen Philosophy, Descartes, and so on. A lot of shit, in other words. Upon closer inspection, Ike saw the book in his brother’s hands was entitled _‘On the Cosmic Relations’_. Henry Holt. Ike had already read it, and couldn't help but scoff at how far behind Kyle was. It wasn't a competition or anything, but Ike was definitely winning.

 

On par with his complete detachment from the rest of humanity through both senses and consciousness, a set of earbuds closed Kyle’s sense of hearing off. Something was blaring through, something Ike couldn't make out. Whatever it was, though, it had to be awful.

 

It took some time, but eventually Kyle's eyes darted up from the page. Ike knew better than to think Kyle hadn't recognized his presence, because Kyle always knew if it was him. And Ike hated being ignored almost as badly as Kyle did. Even if he was completely and utterly oblivious to almost embarrassing levels, Kyle could mentally follow Ike’s presence for miles if he really wanted to.

 

With a sigh, the redhead didn’t even bother removing even one of the headphones, muttering sternly under his breath, “Ike, leave me alone, I’m reading.”

 

Ike grinned just a bit, folding his legs and leaning to balance on his knees. His elbows were propped up on the duvet as he focused his thoughts onto his brother. While Kyle did possess telepathy, some form of it, anyway, it was not nearly as potent as his telekinesis. It was difficult to read most people’s thoughts, but Ike’s were substantially easier to focus on. They both just sort of figured it was easier for a psychic to read another psychic’s mind, something along those lines.

 

_‘C’mon, Kyle, you keep being a hermit the way you are, and you’ll never get laid.’_

 

That got his attention. Eyes widened and face glowing red, Kyle sat up so fast he almost fell off his bed. Earbuds intact, he moved to balance himself. “Ike!”

 

_‘What? It’s true. Hell, I’ve had more sex than you.’_

 

Ike leaned forward on his elbows and watched, amused, as Kyle went through the appropriate reactions. Shock, anger, a slight and short-lived twinge of inadequacy, which Ike also found funny as hell, and then right back to anger.

 

“Shut the fuck up, Ike, you’re eleven!” he cursed while ripping out his headphones, skin and hair now approaching the same color. His shoulders hunched and almost touching the lobes of his ears as he defensively curled into himself, glowering forward at his brother’s stupid, smirking face.

 

Ike brought his hands to his cheeks and let loose an expression of mock terror. “Language!” His imitation of their mother had a dangerous level of accuracy behind it, all from years of practice. “I’m an impressionable young child, and I need an inoffensive environment in which to grow and develop a healthy mental state.” Kyle shot him another glare, and he received it with a cocky grin.

 

Eventually Kyle sighed, rolling his eyes. “Oh, you’re so full of shit,” he grumbled, kicking out with his leg and purposely missing Ike’s head with his socked foot. “You’re a smartass, too.”

 

“I must get it from you," Ike mused, voice practically drowning in sarcasm. "You just have such an influence over me.”

 

Finding himself hilarious at the expense of his wholly irritated brother, Ike burst out in mad, hyena-like giggles. Kyle narrowed his eyes even further and clenched his fingers onto the book's cover, annoyance finally boiling over.

 

“Okay, that’s it. Out!” Ike had no time to protest as invisible hands lifted him into the air and off his feet, gradually carrying him towards the door. Kyle spent his entire summer between eighth and ninth grade practicing multitasking with his telekinesis while his friends were off studying or getting high or masturbating. Now with little effort, the door was opened and Ike started struggling mid-air. Truly the sacrificing of his social life had paid off.

 

“Put me down!” Ike demanded, lightly struggling against the unseen force. “If you keep doing that, mom’ll find out eventually, promise or no promise.”

 

The joke was instantly killed and Ike was lowered to the ground, less gently than he was hoping. Kyle’s irritated frown curled into something much more serious as he bit at his bottom lip. A hesitation grew between the two, sour and powerful. In hopes of crushing whatever conversation his brother was prompting out of him, Kyle vainly returned to his book, his brow furrowed, obviously distracted by the nagging thought Ike had brought back to the surface.

 

They’d talked about it before, argued about it, and it was honestly something that made the both of them inwardly shiver.

 

Ike returned to the bed, but kept a respectable distance as Kyle tried desperately to ignore him. Eventually, he decided to break the silence. “You think we should tell them soon?” he asked as looked down at his socked feet.

 

Kyle didn’t respond immediately, first closing his eyes with a deep sigh and leaning even further onto his back. “No, not ever. Not before we get older.” After a moment, he opened his eyelids and let his gaze trail back to his brother. “Ike, we've been over this.”

 

Their mother was on the school board in their district, so infamous that everyone both feared and mocked her simultaneously. She was that person who organized protests and stayed awake for three days straight and got mad at the little things most people prefered ignoring. And naturally, her being a liberal Jew living in San Francisco, she was one of those people who went to streetcorner protests with signs that read “[insert minority group] deserve equal rights!” in bold letters, like the words themselves were screaming at you. She’d be that mom that would wear homemade shirts that would read “I love my mutant sons”, and she’d have no qualms with telling anyone in earshot that her kids deserved the same treatment everyone else got.

 

Kyle understood her crusades more than Ike did. He got self-righteous, too, realizing too late that it was genetic and something doomed to forever be apart of him without any hope of escape. Ike was more apathetic, in healthy doses. If he ever found himself out with a sign that criticized something about the economy or the government or whatever, he could blame his family instead of himself. He knew it was selfish, but it was a natural coping mechanism.

 

It’s not like they didn’t care. It’s that they didn’t like being pariahs, especially if it wasn’t their fight to fight.

 

Bored of watching his feet, Ike moved to the side of Kyle’s bed and snatched up the book on the duality of the universe and the living individual, lazily flipping between the pages. “Dude, she’ll figure it out some time, especially if you keep lifting me up like that.”

 

“I’d rather her not ever know,” Kyle mused. “Ever. I mean, she’s pro-mutant, that’s wonderful and whatever, but think about it. She’d totally-”

 

“Use our powers for her own political gain and purposely out us to the public." Kyle's brows furrowed even further and Ike cracked another all-knowing smile as he tossed the book back. Without asking, he crawled his way onto the bed and laid opposite his older brother, stretching out his legs and crossing his arms behind his head. "I know.”

 

Kyle rolled his eyes, but otherwise didn't object to the new occupancy on his mattress. “If I have to promise to not read your mind to the best of my abilities, you've got to stop looking five seconds into the future to see what I’m going to say. Because that’s getting really fucking old.”

 

“For your information, you’re just incredibly predictable.” Ike moved his hand to poke Kyle’s too-serious face, but his hand was slapped away by a force he couldn’t see. “And even if that was the case, you’re the morally ethical one. I promised nothing.”

 

Kyle, being the intelligent individual he was, knew continuing any argument with Ike was a vain idea to begin with. As much as it pained him to admit, the brat was smarter than him, if just a bit. In complete surrender, he plopped back down against his bed next to his brother with a long, dragging sigh.

 

“Little shit.” The impact of his weight caused a few books to topple to the floor, and without even lifting an arm, he had then swiftly moved back to their original spots. “You definitely got your smartassness from me,” he admitted with a slight smile as he brought back his copy of Henry Holt.

 

Ike grabbed at Kyle’s headphones and pulled his brother’s iPod towards him, popping the buds into his ears as he made an effort to stumble upon something decent. “At least I don’t use the word smartassness.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Stan Marsh was normal. As normal as any kid his age could be, anyway. And he liked normal, too, so it was alright.

 

Born in Littleton, Colorado, raised in Highlands Ranch, Stan lived the most common of lives with the most common of families. His father was a geologist, his mom worked reception at some clinic downtown for plastic surgery, and his sister was long gone after she scored a Field Hockey scholarship to some nice college on the east coast.

 

Stan was also athletic, dabbling in a good number of sports from basketball to soccer to baseball, but his most practiced was football. He’d call it his favorite if he really cared enough to rank them, although baseball was the worst, but he rarely cared deeply about much of anything. But Stan was a normal guy. He had nothing to hide. He liked his home and his city and his friends and he especially loved animals. He really was completely normal.

 

All except for being a closet mutant.

 

The day his life came crashing down was beautiful, sunny and bright, as Stan returned home from school. He walked since he was still saving up for a car, and he had figured the weather was nice enough, anyway. It was the final week of school and everyone was excited, especially the seniors, but Stan didn’t really get the hype. Summers were long and often boring, although did serve for some good personal time. He had friends, being on the football team, but Stan valued time spent by himself more, like some weird and subtle form of regeneration. Being around people for too long wore him out, and friend invitations were often rejected so he could get to new levels on Warcraft and play with his dog.

 

As soon as he’d turned onto his street, the cat who had followed him from the mailbox and up to his front porch was still there at his feet. Stan hadn’t given the cat much thought, since some animal always seemed to be following him from place to place, but even without any attention from him, the cat would not leave him alone. It purred and rubbed against the legs of his jeans, and Stan was forced to be careful not to step on its paws or tail. Cats weren’t his favorite animal ever, but he certainly didn’t want to hurt the stupid thing. Upon reaching the porch, Stan turned to the furball, glaring down at it with a stern frown.

 

_Go home, you can’t come in._

 

The cat was a brown tabby named Gus from a few blocks down, and with Stan’s words, it stretched its shoulders and scampered off. He didn’t know the owner, but figured that the cat knew where it was going even if it wasn’t wearing a collar or tags. Damn thing was talkative without even knowing English.

 

Stan entered his home and closed the front door with his foot, immediately noticing a fat blob of wiggling fur at his feet. With a smile as warm and loving as Stan could pull, he bent down and put a hand to Sparky’s head, scratching at the ears. There was the force he couldn’t explain, the words without words, and with it he sent a thought from himself and out to his dog.

 

_Hey, Sparky._

 

Sparky was Stan’s Christmas present from when he was seven. Now he was old, fat and lazy in his age, but Stan loved him more than anything. Even before Stan discovered his -unique- ability, the weird thing that drew all animals to him, Sparky was his best friend. Animals had always understood him, and Stan had always understood animals far more than any person he’d ever met. People were baffling and distant, while animals -except goldfish, Stan made an exception at goldfish- were more comprehensible than any other person Stan had met in his life.

 

Sharon Marsh was in the kitchen, reveling in her day off by reading a book at the table and drinking a cup of coffee barefoot. She looked up at her son as he made his way through the archway that separated the kitchen from the living room, smiling just slightly, although her eyes immediately returned to the page she was on.

 

“Hi, sweetie.”

 

“Hi, mom,” Stan responded absentmindedly as Sparky waddled behind him. He scoured the freezer for something to eat, pulling out a box of hot pockets and popping a few into the microwave. Stan didn’t really care for hot pockets, but the feeling of fullness meant more than the taste, anyway.

 

Despite her obvious interest in her book, Sharon still made an effort to keep the conversation going. “How was school?” It was more than his dad ever did, and even if Stan himself was just as disinterested, it was sort of admirable.

 

The microwave beeped and Stan pulled at the handle, gripping at the edges of the plate. “Fine. All the seniors are off now, so I’m pretty much done after finals.”

 

“That’s great, Stanley.”

 

And that was that.

 

“I’ll be in my room,” Stan called over his shoulder as he made his way towards the stairs, but his mother’s voice stopped him.

 

“Oh, Stan, I almost forgot. You got something in the mail.”

 

Moving like he was in a hurry even when he really wasn’t, Stan returned to the kitchen table and took the envelope his mother handed to him. “Thanks, mom.”

 

Stan reached his room, backpack discarded into the corner as Sparky awkwardly jumped for Stan’s bed. He made it after a few failed tries and curled up tight on the comforter, letting out a loud snort as he got comfortable. With the weight now off his back, Stan kicked off his shoes and tossed the letter his mom had given him onto his desk; probably another stupid reminder from the library or his school or something. Another perfectly boring night.

 

Three hours later and Stan sat slumped over his computer, mindlessly surfing online and finding himself reading the wikipedia article on Iggy Pop, when his pocket buzzed.

 

A text, from his friend Gary. _You in for a movie tonight?_

 

“Fine,” was what he said, but he texted back _Sounds great :)_

 

That was when Stan noticed it; gold. The letter sitting alone at his desk had a bright golden seal right at it’s center, refletent in the lamplight and making itself known by flashing in Stan’s direction and catching his eye. Suddenly curious, Stan reached over and picked the envelope up, first inspecting the golden seal and then the front.

 

It was the sender that really got him interested. Well, that and nervous. **Evolutionary Genesis Institute**.

 

“What the hell-?” he muttered, biting at his lip. There was a sudden heaviness in his stomach, like he’d swallowed his lungs and now everything felt out of place.

 

Stan didn’t really know what to expect what would be inside, but opening the envelope, it was just a piece of paper. That was what tended to be in envelopes, and Stan felt stupid for thinking some cryptic nonsense was going to fall out instead. His name wasn’t printed on top like he’d figured it would, and the message inside was only a short paragraph long. Thoughts just slightly buzzing, his eyes began to scan over the first few words as he silently read along.

 

_Dear Potential Applicant,_

_We are very pleased to inform you that you have been selected, along with a handful of other potential applicants, to be welcomed as a student to the first ever academy dedicated to the exclusive teaching of mutants all across the nation. Evolutionary Genesis Institute, headed by former New York State Senator William Gray, is the prototype academy to what we hope becomes a fast-growing chain of institutes world-wide. All details will be specified should you agree to become a fully-registered applicant, which you may do with parental or guardian consent on the return form found in the back of the envelope._

_Together, we will all work for a prosperous future for both humans and mutants. We hope to hear from you soon._

 

_Sincerely,_  
 _William Gray Sr. and the Institute of HMI_

 

Words couldn’t begin to fully explain the emotions jamming Stan’s thought process at that small moment in time. His eyes were wide and full, chest tight and mouth left agape. He read it once, then twice just to be sure, then returned to the envelope to see if it was a mistake. It had to be. No one else knew, it was just him. Only him. That weird, unexplainable thing that only he knew about; he’d known it was something. His parents watched all those stories about mutants on the news, what they were, what they did. Stan had always had the sneaking suspicion that the things he felt, the way animals spoke to him and how he spoke back-

 

 **Stanley Rudolph Marsh** , printed smack in the middle in such a damn official way. Without a second to breathe, Stan was back on his computer, googling Evolutionary Genesis Institute, the letter left face-down next to the monitor. Maybe it was a fake, a farce, nothing to get worked up about. Evolutionary Genesis Institute. There’s no way it was a real thing, it had to be a joke.

 

A news story popped up immediately attached to a picture of an older looking man, his hair graying, smiling and waving at the cameraman taking the picture. He was grinning wide with all of his teeth, but he looked charming enough, like someone genetically engineered in some lab somewhere to be a politician. Scrolling down to the text, Stan read the first line without any hesitation.

 

_William Gray, previously a New York Senator, has recently made the statement that he plans on opening a private institution that works to educate mutant children and young adults specifically. Financial backing has been granted in the name of the institution by means of multiple investors-_

 

The mouse clicked out of the tab before Stan bothered to read any further. Leaning his head onto his desk and burying his head in his arms, Stan tried to keep his thoughts from raging and bruising up his skull. He closed his eyes and breathed slowly, in and out, before he sat up and grabbed the invitation again. Without another read, his gaze kept firm to the flimsy piece of paper for a good minute as his brain scrambled to properly function again.

 

Instead, however, he just found himself again folding his arms over his head, hoping that maybe the world would just up and disappear for him. It was like he was back in elementary school again.

 

“Shit.”

 

It was only natural that Stan got the letter he did. After all, Stan wasn’t quite as normal as he’d hoped.

 

None of them were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First chapters are always nothing but exposition. I’m too lazy to become the exception. The actual story starts next, so don't worry, it won't all be like this. Ships also happen later on, so I won't spoil most of them now.
> 
> Reviews/Kudos are always encouraged, and will undoubtedly help me keep writing.


	2. Graceless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evolutionary Genesis Institute finally opens its doors.

“So, are you excited?”

Stan slouched in the passenger seat of his mom’s car, watching the pine trees pass as they continued along the steep and winding roads of the Rocky Mountains.

There were many things Stan inherited from his mom, and his quietness was definitely one of them. They’d sat there in a relatively comfortable silence for most of the drive up, the only constant noise coming from the radio that Stan had set to the contemporary rock station he usually had it to. His mom prefered the oldies that played 70s pop music, but she’d said nothing against it, and Stan figured she must have been trying to appease him. And it seemed that the closer to their destination they got, as dictated by their GPS, the more his mother tried making conversation.

“I guess,” Stan said, trying to sound as normal as he could. “A bit.”

It had been his decision, after all, to transfer from Thunder Ridge to this new, fancy dorm school that some rich ex-senator had built just south of Glenwood Springs. Stan had never really been attached to his school, anyway, and had no real reason to go back. Not even football or his friends really made him waver in his decision, which potentially made him a terrible person. Not that it really mattered by that point, what with him being two hours away from home with bag after bag of his things in the backseat.

When he was describing exactly why he was switching schools to those who knew him, his teammates and the people he hung out with on a regular basis, he’d decided to test it. He told them about his mutation, the talking to animals thing. While he wasn’t sure what he was expecting, he found himself surprised that most of them seemed to react better than he’d expected, and they promised to keep in contact. They told him to come back whenever he could and retell what it was like living with a bunch of mutants, and this acceptance made the choice even easier for Stan. He wasn’t sentimental. He’d move on pretty easily, and he figured that they would, too.

But when his mom asked him if he was excited, he chose to be truthful because he really was excited. Horribly nervous, but also excited. His decision to just pack a few bags and drive two and a half hours up into the Rocky Mountains to some strange new school to be surrounded by people- no, kids, with incredibly powers did seem daunting. Stan had seen what some mutants were capable of. People who could pull a tree from the ground, people who could fly, people who could lift entire buildings with nothing but their minds.

Stan didn’t understand much of anything beyond his little bubble, and he knew this. That was the reason why he’d approached his parents with the letter, why he told them his secret and held his nerve when he revealed that he wanted to go through with it.

Because why not figure himself out? What did he have to lose? Nothing, was what Stan figured.

“Oh, Stanley,” his mom cooed lovingly, moving to lightly tussle her son’s thick black hair while keeping her eyes glued to the road. “My little man. It’s a new step for you, and you’re nervous. That’s totally normal. You’ll learn a ton of new things, and make a ton of new friends.”

“Yeah, freaks like me.” Stan had meant it as a joke. Sort of. But his mom frowned anyway and took her hand back.

“Please don’t call yourself that.” Her tone was so serious that Stan sat up in his seat slightly as he looked over at her. “You’re not a freak, Stanley. Okay? You’re not.” The GPS signaled for her to exit off the highway, so she did just that. “You’re just different. Everyone’s different. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

Stan frowned, returning his gaze outward to the world outside. There was a minute long pause before-

“Dad must’ve been really busy.”

Of both his parents, Stan’s father definitely had the more negative reaction to this whole “your son is a mutant” thing. Sharon was surprisingly supportive about the whole thing. She was the one who asked him questions, she was the one who made sure it was Stan’s decision whether or not he wanted to drop everything and move out to a dorm school in the mountains, especially one that was in its trial stage. Randy had proved much less supportive. He made mention that he wished that Stan had told him sooner, and in the last week or so that Stan was still at home, his dad barely spoke to him. He’d given Stan a hug before they’d driven off, but couldn’t make the trip because of something he had to do for work. At least, that was his reasoning behind missing the tour of Stan’s new school.

Sharon sighed. “It’s complicated, Stan, you know that. Your dad…” She paused, biting at her lip while carefully choosing her next words. “Well, he’s getting used to the idea, is all. He just needs to warm up to it, okay? Give him some time, he’ll be right as rain soon enough.” Stan didn’t say a word, and kept his gaze to his right. “Plus it’s not like you’re moving across the country, you’re only a few hours away from home.”

In the quiet that came after, Stan took in her words and hoped she was right. When he said nothing, his mom asked,

“Anything else on your mind, sweetheart?”

Stan shook his head.“I’m…” He stopped, trailing off. She didn’t need to know just how jumbled his emotions really were, so he changed his answer last second. “I’m just nervous, like you said.”

His mom again turned the car onto a quieter, narrower road, one that curved along the mountain like a snake. “The people running this place seem super nice,” she said, happy to change the subject. “And, hey, it’s a trial run, right? If you don’t like it, you can always come home. You’re not here forever, you know.”

“I know.”

“Oh, Stan,” she sighed. After another few minutes passed without any noise outside of the traffic report on the radio, the GPS signaled that their destination was on their left. “Alright,” she said, turning onto the road she was instructed to. “Looks like this is it.”

The drive up this specific road was a short one, and after going straight for a few miles, past a ton of pine trees and a tall hedge that served almost as a gate around the property, Sharon drove into a line of cars that lead to a huge collection of red brick buildings in the distance.

“Oh, wow,” Sharon gasped under her breath, almost as though she were talking to herself.

“This is it?” Stan asked.

Sharon moved to tinker with the GPS, it’s message that they’d reached their destination repeating multiple times in a row, and turned it off. “Sure is. Wow, if I was the one staying here, I’d stay all year long. It’s beautiful!”

It really was. There were four buildings that Stan could see from where he was, which was about half a mile away. The one at the center was the biggest, probably the one made for classrooms and the “school” part of this school, and it had almost a British, Charles Dickens-y feel to it. All of the buildings were red brick, some with pointed, tower-like roofs and other with chimneys. The entire collection was up on a hill, surrounded by a thick layer of woodland pine trees on either side while beneath the buildings were lawns of green grass. It was almost like a fairy tale castle.

The architect just had to be British, Stan mused to himself as his mother pulled the car forward.

After a few minutes of waiting, they’d moved enough to be met by a woman with a badge who was smiling. There were a row of people sitting on the outside of the main gate, all with badges and clipboards and smiles.

“Good afternoon!” the woman said when Stan’s mom had rolled her window down. “Do you have your invitation?”

Sharon reached over to the cup holder where she’d placed the invitation they’d received along with Stan’s acceptance letter. The woman took it, inspected the seal on the back, and then brought up her electronic clipboard.

“Could I get a last name, please?”

“Marsh,” Sharon stated plainly. “M-A-R-S-H.”

The woman flipped through the pad and scanned down until she must have found his name, tapping something with an electronic pen.

“Got it.” She looked up and into the car, over to Stan, and forced eye contact with him. “Welcome to Evolutionary Genesis Institute!” Her eyes moved back at Sharon as she continued. “Just keep going and park wherever you can. First day is pretty busy, as you can tell, but you’ll definitely be able to find a spot. After that, enter into the main building. There are people there who can help you find where you’ll need to go.”

“Thank you,” Sharon said as she rolled up her window and drove past, moving along with the line. “They seem really nice here, don’t they, Stan?”

“Yeah,” was all Stan could manage, his attention and eyes glued to the school’s buildings as they got closer.

The parking lot was already pretty full by the time they’d arrived, and Stan figured they should have set off earlier than they had. Since the tours didn’t start until 5pm, his mom assumed they didn’t need to be there early, but apparently that wasn’t the case. The cars in the lot were so diverse, some from surrounding states, some rental cars, and some the regular Colorado plates that Stan was used to, and he spent his time looking at every single one as his mom tried finding a place to park. Sharon had to stop every few seconds to let people and other cars though, and eventually she found a spot pretty far off and near the back.

Stan hopped out of the car the first moment he could and stretched, happy to finally be on his feet. Road trips were usually something he enjoyed, but this one had been especially strange and somewhat uncomfortable, so he was thankful that it was finally over. His stomach, however, was not in the best spirits. It practically flopped upside down as he turned in the direction of this school, which towered above him.

His mom approached him from the other side of the car, tucking Stan’s invitation into her purse and taking her own look at the buildings.

“I saw pictures, sure, but did you expect it to be this pretty, Stan?”

Stan shook his head. “No, not at all.”

With that, Sharon took in a deep breath and began her march through the car lot and up toward the sidewalk.

“Alright, let’s do this.”

It almost seemed different, Stan thought as he followed behind her. He and his mom had taken the steps to be prepared for Evolutionary Genesis Institute, had sent in his application and gotten approved, had spoken online to school advisors and his future counselor, both through e-mail and video chat, and had already taken a tour of the school itself online. But being there in person seemed as though he’d seen the wrong pictures, or that they’d turned into the wrong school.

It was overwhelming.

Out of the parking lot, Stan got a better view. Tons of people were buzzing about the campus; to every kid came a set of parents, maybe a younger sibling or an aunt or uncle, and what looked like tours were being lead everywhere Stan looked. Some of the kids looked excited, some nervous, and some were even demonstrating their powers to one another. Stan watched as some kid, probably a freshman, lifted himself off the ground and hovered around a young and very annoyed blonde girl, who in turn knocked him out of the air with a violet-colored force field and a wave of her hand.

“Goodness,” Stan’s mom said as they watched the boy’s parents approach and pick him off the ground. “Let’s hope this school has a good insurance policy.”

“I’d think they would,” Stan replied, noticing the open doors of the biggest building and the people entering and hovering around it. Around the steps that lead into the building where people handing something out.

Sharon noticed this, too, as she moved to point at it before starting off in that direction, Stan following at her side. “I think we’re supposed to go there.”

As they approached, making their way through the others around them, another pretty smiling woman in a black skirt grabbed their attention. She also had one of those electronic clipboards with a stack of pamphlets between that and her chest.

“Could I have a last name, please?” she asked.

“Oh, Marsh,” Sharon said, smiling back. “Stanley Marsh.”

The woman turned her smile onto Stan as she reached out to shake his hand. He lightly took it. “Welcome, Stanley!”

“It’s… it’s just Stan.”

She released her hold on his hand, not looking deterred by Stan’s hesitance. She searched her clipboard, again searching for Stan in the system, before she looked back up.

“Well, Stan, you’re in the Junior class, so why don’t you two join the others in your grade for the grand tour. We’re giving them in groups, depending on the student’s year. If you’ll enter in here-” she pointed past the doors “-Take the right and wait in room A-04. You’ll meet up with Ms. Finner once she finished her last tour.”

“Sounds great,” Sharon said with a smile and wave. “Thank you.”

“Good luck, Stan,” the woman called after them, and Stan felt almost embarrassed by how cheery she was.

Room A-04 was a lecture hall, slickly designed and professional looking with a rectangular screen at the room’s front that served as its whiteboard. When Stan and Sharon stepped inside, they were met with the drawn eyes of about thirty other people, all of whom were huddled in little groups and talking to each other. The two slipped inside, and while Sharon decided to try and mingle with the other parents, Stan kept his distance and leaned against the wall he was closest to. He looked over the kids, those in his grade, those he’d be having classes with, and noticed that most of them were also looking from face to face, but not making much effort to interact with each other.

Of the group, Stan noticed that one mom in particular was fussing over her son to the extent that it was embarrassing. The kid was skinny and slightly shorter than Stan, but probably wouldn’t have looked as small as he did had he not been wearing a big green sweater and a clunky pair of brown boots. He looked like he’d dressed for Colorado’s winter weather, so he must have been from out of state and under the impression that Colorado was a perpetually snowy tundra. His hair was a spectacular shade of red, a color Stan would have thought dyed had his eyebrows and eyelashes not been the same color, and it was moppy, curled around his ears and forehead. It looked tamed enough, but Stan figured it must have been a frizzy mess when the kid was younger.

“Stand up straight, Kyle.” His mother was super short with her own spectacular red hair pulled back into a bun, her expression strict and her actions overbearing. She pulled at her son’s sweater sleeves, straightening them.

“Mom, please,” the kid muttered, face slightly flushed as his eyes darted to make sure nobody was looking. When his gaze moved to look over at Stan, Stan quickly looked away.

This tour wasn't as big as Stan had figured it would be, only about forty people consisting of kids and parent mumbling to each other in their clusters after the last of the stragglers found where they needed to be.

The kids seemed normal enough. There was a tiny blond with insanely blue eyes and a stoic parent on either side of him, a girl in a red jacket with butter blonde hair tied into a braid over her shoulder, a gangly kid with messy black hair with a pair of sunglasses concealing his eyes, and a short and stocky brunet with a red-letter jacket, among others. Everyone looked normal enough, but, of course, they probably weren’t.

They definitely weren’t. And Stan assumed they all were thinking the same thing.

When the clock struck 5pm exactly, the door opened and in stepped a woman in a black jacket and skirt. Her golden hair was tied back into a bun, a pair of wire black glasses on the end of her nose and a pair of impossibly sharp heels on her feet. She had already garnered the attention of most of the room’s occupants just by opening the door, but she felt the need to clap to make sure she had the utmost focus she needed.

“Alright, Junior class and family members!” she called out to the room, her voice enthusiastic and smile genuine. “My name is Victoria Finner, one of the residential advisors and investors for Evolutionary Genesis Institute. Ready for a tour?”

She didn’t really get a concrete vocal answer, but everyone in the room immediately stood and moved to follow her by filtering out into the hallway.

“This is our main building” Finner explained from her place at the front, waiting for the tour to gather around her in the corridor before leading them further down the hallway that went right. “This is where we have all our classrooms, our main dining hall cafeteria, our testing facility and our sickbay.”

A minute passed before the hallway walls opened up at the left and into a large, expanded cafeteria. It was round in shape with two different levels of tables and chairs connected by a staircase, and the center of the room looked almost like the inside of a fast food joint.

“This is our dining hall,” Finner explained as she moved to stand before this new room. “Expansive, fit for those of any diet or allergy, and incredibly spacious. Kosher, vegetarian, vegan, whatever your child requires, we will have an option for it. Meals change daily, and we will be serving breakfast, lunch, and dinner at the scheduled times, along with times when students on down time can come and buy any snacks they see fit. And with the nearby town, students will also be encouraged to get jobs and work on days or hours off from regular school time. There are plenty of restaurants and places to eat there, as well.”

A few “oohs” were heard from inside the tour, and Stan himself had to admit that he was impressed. While it reminded him of something he might see in an airport, it was still impressively designed, and clearly had plenty of thought put into it. This school was really going far and beyond to make everyone happy.

After she had given her group time to look over the institute’s impressive dining hall, Finner continued on, her highheels making a sharp crack against the floors with every step.

“Down this hall, we have our recreational rooms,” she said with a wave of her hand, motioning to the doors they were passing. Some of the kids tried looking through the windows alongside these doors, but the rooms inside were far too dark for them to properly see. Unless one of them had the ability to see in the dark, but with the way everyone was squinting, Stan figured not.

Finner continued her explanations, not bothering to stop for the recreational rooms. “Some of these rooms will be for relaxation, others for exercise. The equipment here is brand new and incredibly durable. Some of these rooms are where we built specific space for students with mutations that require a lot of room. Unfortunately, you will not be allowed inside at this time, but you can see the pictures we have online. We’re just finishing up the last touches.”

Stan watched some of the parents exchange glances, but nobody said anything. They turned a corner and moved down a staircase when Finner clapped her hands once, turning back around to face them. She stood before an open door on their left, one that lead to another, more narrow room with dimmed lights.

“And, like I mentioned before, we do have a testing facility,” she said, motioning for the group to enter this specific room. Stan listened to her as he too made his way inside, eyes instantly drawn to the window that shown bright in the dimness. He made his way over, and found himself looking down into a brightly lit pit. “While it does sound a bit scary, it’s really anything but. In this room here, we will be conducting bi-monthly tests that calculate our students’ mutation levels. We specifically built this school for mutants, and therefore want to do everything we can to get them to express their powers whenever they can, not shut them out. We want the students to explore their capabilities, and stretch their legs every so often, so to speak.”

Looking down into this pit reminded Stan of gladiators and lion fighting. It had the same feel, what with it being round and centered with a set barrier for onlookers, but the illusion fell when he noticed that the walls, even up until the point they were at, were padded. What it was most like was probably a basketball court, and Stan and the group were all in the highest seats.

Finner had stayed outside, and called inward from her place at the door.

“We have information on mutation levels and the ways in which we’ll be conducting these tests in our main handbook, of which you should have already received with the mailed copy of your acceptance letter.” She must have explained this a thousand times before this point to a thousand other people, but Stan was impressed by how natural she sounded, how unrehearsed but still professional. She was the type of person Stan imagined was programed instead of born.

“So you’ll be specifically catering to each student’s abilities?” one of the parents asked.

“Precisely,” Finner said with a fast nod. “While we don’t have the budget for every single student to get their own personal workroom or trainer, we have a staff of highly trained professionals for many different types of mutants with physical abilities, elementals, or body modifiers, and students can pick which trainer they feel is right for them. Some of these professionals are mutants themselves. Alright, everybody, let’s return upstairs, and I’ll show you the sickbay.”

“Quite an old fashioned term,” one of the parents muttered to another.

They clammered back up the stairs, some faster than others, passing more lecture halls, a set of bathrooms and what looked like an office before another turn. Here, Finner propped open a large, metal double door, and inside was the most pleasant room Stan had seen yet. The walls were a soft yellow, like a baby’s room color, and alongside the beds that lined the walls, five to each side, was a side table with a vase full of violets.

  
“Here’s the sickbay, or hospital wing. Here, we’ve hired top notch doctors, many of whom were hired through William Gray’s own personal recommendation.”

A blonde mother pushed forward a bit, raising her hand up to her ear to get Finner's attention. “Is there really a need for an entire hospital wing, or on staff doctors?”

Finner's smile didn't even drop as she shook her head. “Not necessarily, but it’s always important to have something on hand for emergencies. While the students that will be attending this school are tremendously talented and skilled, everyone on staff has gone above and beyond to make sure that those in our care will be helped for any problem that could potentially occur. It was William Gray himself who paid for the entirety of this wing. The safety of his future students were his first and foremost priority while building the institute.”

The moms and dads muttered to themselves, apparently pleased with her answer, but Stan noticed a few of the kids eying each other, suddenly nervous, wondering which mutant in the group could potentially put them in the hospital.

With another turn down the winding hallways, they were suddenly back to the familiar sight of the front corridor.

“Alright, we’ve made it around the main building” Finner smiled, edging towards a set of doors that lead outside. Everyone trotted along after her. “Everything in the few floors above us is bathrooms and lecture halls. Now, if you’ll follow me outside, I’ll be taking you on the best part of our tour. The dorms for the Junior and Senior students.”

It was at this that the kids in the group perked up more, especially the redhead, and Stan almost laughed at how obviously desperate this kid was to be away from his sleeve-straightening mother. They exited the building and into the fresh late-summer air, trekking a ways to the school’s left along a gravel road as Finner answered some of the more pesky parents’ questions. Stan marveled as her chipper behavior was still ever present even as she walked the entire way there in her impossible heels.

The walk along the campus was beautiful, just as Stan had expected, from its long green lawn to the benches stationed here and there to the strategically placed flower bushes that would be totally destroyed by the time winter hit. Before long, the group was lead to a beautiful red brick companion building decorated with vines. There was even a flower garden out in the building’s front, complete with an antique-looking bird feeder and white fencing.

“And here are the dorms,” Finner said, whirling around with a grin. “Unfortunately, much of the higher floors are shut down until tomorrow morning, when we’ll start moving students in, so we will have to keep our tour down on the lower levels. Even still, you’ll only be missing the basics.”

She clanked her way up the few steps and held the door open for her group as they filtered into what was likely the main room. The first thing Stan noticed was the television above a set of doors on the adjacent wall, which was already flashing “WELCOME NEW STUDENTS!” with bright yellow letters. The main room was actually smaller than Stan had expected. Once everyone was indoors, Finner again clapped so she could gather their attention.

“Welcome to your new dorm rooms. If you’ll follow me, we’ll take a quick look at level one.”

She moved down the left corridor, motioning for the rest to follow, and pointed to a few things as they passed.

“This,” she said with a quick point to a small and dark little room that looked almost like a gift shop, “Is your school shop. We’ll be accepting student volunteers who would like to be employed by the school on their off hours to make a little extra money.”

With a few more feet, Finner pointed to their right to a large but dark room.

“This is our main recreational room,” she said as she opened the glass door that between said room and the hall, flicking on the light. Stan had to look past shoulders to see a set of maroon sofas against soft green wallpaper, a set of connected desks with what looked like brand new macbooks on top, a fooseball table, a round table surrounded with brightly colored plastic chairs, and a freaking huge flat screen stuck against the wall.

“It’s the only room with a set of security cameras in the entire school,” Finner explained. “This and its companion for the other dorm room building. This is merely because of the more expensive things in this room, such as the television and community laptops. Here, we encourage students to enjoy some television should they need to, use our computers for studying, and the tables for anything from boardgames to studying groups to meals or snacks.”

Stan really liked this room, as did every other kid in the group, but they unfortunately moved on a little too quickly for his liking. Back into the hallway, they passed a few bulletin boards, pamphlet stands, cushioned benches and many, many potted plants, before apparently having circled the entire building. Back where they’d started, Finner opened the doors below the television, revealing a staircase.

“And now a look at the rooms.” The parents and students were instructed to go first, the kids hurrying up the staircase while most of the parents took their sweet time, chatting to themselves and looking around.

The space at the top of the stairs was much tighter than at the bottom, and Stan kept his distance from the other occupants of the hallway but pushing himself up against the wall. Finner’s heels clanked against the linoleum floor as she ascended after everyone else, and once she was at the top, she straightened her skirt and clapped again.

“To the right are the boy’s rooms, and the left are the girls.” She made her move again, and Stan wondered how much this woman exercised on her time off if none of this was getting to her. Many of the parents and even some of the kids were huffing under their breath, carefully trying to make sure no one else noticed. Even his mom was wheezing a bit, but they all kept going after the blonde.

“Each room can hold two to four students,” Finner explained, leading them to the right and through the boy’s rooms first. It wasn’t really blocked off by much more than a big door, which was far less than Stan had imagined it would be. “It has its own bathroom with a shower, sink and toilet, and there are two built in desks where students can do homework. And, yes, we do distribute toilet paper, and students are allowed to purchase their own if they would like to.”

Finner stopped and motioned to let them know that they could start mingling about, searching things over so that parents could either make their approval known or find something worth complaining about that she could explain away. Sharon tapped Stan’s shoulder and pointed to one of the empty rooms, and the two made their way in and turned on the lights as Finner stayed in the hallway and kept talking to a few parents with questions. The room was definitely smaller than the one Stan had at home, but had a surprising amount of space despite that. The bedframes were bare and waiting for a mattress, and Stan inspected the plain white walls wondering how well his posters would fit.

Some of the others came in, as well, including the gangly kid with his pretty blond mother and clownish looking dad and the stocky brunet with his awkward vest-and-glasses dad.

“Yeah, this could work for me,” the brunet said, mapping things out with his hands and grinning like an idiot. He was excited, and Stan figured the dark haired kid was rolling his eyes under his sunglasses.

Sharon had moved to look at the bathrooms, and under her breath, Stan could hear her mutter,

“Damn, I wish I’d had a bathroom this nice when I went to college.”

Stan peered over her shoulder, also sort of impressed. It wasn’t a five star hotel’s bathroom, there was no bathtub with built-in jets or embroidered towels, but it was certainly nice, even if it was almost entirely white.

After they all sort of congregated back, Finner’s grin widened and she motioned for the group to again move, and they circled the outer hallway.

“Now, I’m sure you have all been through the workshop on how classes go, but just as a refresher, our class system is a bit more similar to American colleges than high schools. Students choose their classes, attend their specific courses three times weekly for two hours each, and are allowed free periods to do whatever they please as long as they remain on school grounds. Along with a curriculum of math, language arts, english, science, history, and electives that range from music courses to drama programs, we also will have periods where we encourage students to delve into their capabilities and learn how to control and understand their mutations. Weekends are open unless the student has specific classes on these days, and are allowed off school grounds from 7am to 9pm. Curfew is always at 9:30p.m. and will only be changed on special occasion.”

They’d circled the outer hallway and into what must have been the girls’ rooms, because they again stopped as a chunk of the group, mostly the girls and their parents, dispersed. Stan stayed back in the hall this time, not really interested in seeing the same thing twice, as he listened to a few of the parents push themselves closer to Finner to ask more questions.

“So, if students live nearby, will they be able to leave and go home for weekends?” one of them asked.

Finner only kept up her smile. “Of course. They just need a signed permit from both school administration and a parent or guardian. And to avoid any mishaps, a parent must give permission in person, from a phone call to a skype call. Emails and hand-written notes are unfortunately not going to work. In some cases, where students have the special ability to copy a parent or guardian’s voice or appearance, parents will be allowed to have a special password of their choosing, so as to keep any troublemaking to a minimum.”

Some of them seemed annoyed by this, while others nodded in agreement.

“You said there’s a town nearby?” the redhead’s mother asked while her son stood awkwardly behind her, his eyes trained on his boots. “And that students are encouraged to get jobs?”

Finner nodded. “If parents are not on board with setting up a regular allowance, which we do offer, or if the student just wants a little extra money for anything not provided by the school, they are most certainly encouraged to go to town and get jobs. The town, South Park, is only about a mile north from the school grounds, easily accessible and very open and safe. Residentials are further off, and there’s always a bus system driving back and forth between regular times. Students are responsible for getting themselves to and from while also making it back to school for curfew, however.”

Sharon, who had been casually chatting with one of other mothers, heard this and nudged Stan in the side. “That sounds like a good idea, Stan,” she prompted. “Maybe look into it.”

“Sure, mom.” Not that Stan was necessarily interested in getting a job while also going to school, but she was right, it might be worth looking into.

The girls were done sooner than the boys, and before long, they were back at the staircase and were being lead back down.

“Now,” Finner said as they descended, “When you applied, a number was checked as far as room occupancy, or whether or not the student was comfortable with sharing a room with one, two or three others, or if they would rather be by themselves. It should tell you on your student forms that you’ll be picking up after orientation tomorrow what room you will be in and how many roommates you’ll have. As you saw, boys and girls will be separated into different sides of the Junior dorm building, and along with the individual bathrooms, there is also one bigger communal bathroom that will be shared with the entire dorm for each side. If anyone finds their accommodations problematic, especially this early on, you can be easily moved to a different room. It will not be as easy later on, and you’ll have to submit paperwork and wait for an empty space or someone who is also willing to move. Switching rooms is also something you’ll have to get permission for, since we can’t have someone move into a space where our files say someone else should be.”

“How big is the staff?” one of the parents called out. “Is there a cleaning crew?”

“Yes,” Finner said, “But students are also responsible for keeping their possessions safe as well as cleaning up after themselves. While it is important for them to keep comfortable and at home, they will not have someone constantly cleaning up after them. If a student gets too many complains and refuses to do anything about their behavior, they will receive regulation punishments. Similar goes for any other kind of problematic behavior. First strike, their parent or guardian will be contacted. Second strike, they will receive suspension, and third strike, they will be expelled. Trial period or not, Evolutionary Genesis Institute has rules and expects their students to abide by them.

“Now, most of what you’re seeing in this building is the first floor, especially since most of everything above us is bedrooms and the communal bathrooms. And, of course, this is the dorm building for our Junior and Senior students, while the Freshman, Sophomore and pre-high school students are roomed on the opposite side of campus.”

They exited the dorms, and with that, Victoria Finner was done. She clapped three times.

“Parents and students, you are now free to poke around, explore, and relax until 7pm, when our Principal, Mr. William Gray, will be giving a speech in the main auditorium for EGI’s official introduction. I can answer more questions now, if you have any.”

The main parents that had been vocal during the tour were naturally the ones who swarmed her. Sharon, who had been almost entirely silent the entire time, lightly elbowed Stan in the ribs and grinned at him.

“Well, Stanley, what do you think?” she asked, and Stan returned her smile.

“It’s different. I think it’ll take some time to get used to.”

“Still on board, then?”

“Yeah,” Stan said, his stomach fluttering. “I think this will be good for me.” Sharon smiled and tuffled his hair just a bit.

“Well, then, let’s get some lunch in that fancy cafeteria and work out the details.” Stan let the breath he’d been holding in out through his nose, happy that his mom had been putting so much energy into this. She really seemed eager to encourage and help him, and he silently thanked her as they made their way back to the main building a paid for a couple of sub sandwiches in the cafeteria. They sat there for about an hour as people filtered in and out, discussing the dorms and sports and the commute between the school and that little town Finner mentioned, and before long, Sharon was cut off mid-sentence by a pleasant little ding proceeding an intercom message.

“ _Attention parents, guardians and students_.” The voice was a man’s, youthful and energized and very, very British. “ _Please report to the main auditorium for Opening Ceremonies and a speech by Principal Gray_.”

“Guess we’d better get going, then,” Sharon said as she stood, and Stan silently followed after her. There was a staff member in the hallway instructing people on where to go, and Stan and his mom moved with the growing crowd towards the auditorium.

The room itself was giant, obviously at the center of the main building, and very much so reminded Stan of the theatre where his mother had forced him to watch a ballet production of The Nutcracker. The stage was at least set up similarly, complete with a gold trimming and red curtain. There was even an usher placed at the door to point empty seats out, and before long, they were sat in the red auditorium chairs, waiting for this William Gray and his important speech. Sharon sat at Stan’s left, humming and checking her phone for messages, while Stan mindlessly scrolled through Facebook. He had a million messages, but he ignored them and returned to an old game of Tetris, instead.

After about ten minutes, the lights dimmed, and out from behind the red curtains stepped someone who instantly caught Stan’s attention. He was average looking, not that handsome but definitely not ugly, either. Really, he was by all accounts a normal guy, but what caught Stan’s interest was that he was young. Even from the distance he was at, Stan swore to himself that the man on stage that was moving to the podium at center stage, clearing his throat into the microphone to address the audience, had to be close to him in age. It was almost uncanny. The guy had golden hair glossed back by product, light eyes, a well-tailored black suit, and a smile so charming Stan wondered how much he’d practiced it.

“Welcome, students and parents.” It was that voice again, the young one with the thick English accent that had called the assembly. “My name is Gregory Thorne, secretary, consultant and good friend of William Gray. It has been a glorious day getting to know all of you, and I know I speak for the rest of the staff when I say that we are beyond excited to be welcoming you to the first ever academy built and designed to not only help young mutants to develop their extraordinary abilities, but to also help them discover how to use those extraordinary abilities in the world ahead of them.”

The audience clapped, and Gregory waited about a minute before continuing.

“We here at Evolutionary Genesis Institute want a prosperous future for both mutants and humans, and hope that this environment helps nurture the amazing potential that they have. Now, I am pleased to be introducing you to your new Principal, William Gray.”

He held out his arm to his right and in walked the man Stan had seen on picture after picture, but never in person up until then. Gray looked as he did in all the pictures, but moved far more swiftly and gracefully that he looked. The audience clapped again, the polite and respectful kind of clapping, and Gray shook Gregory’s hand before the blond stepped out of the way so that the older man could take the spot at the podium. The smile that William Gray flashed the audience was one of the brightest and kindest looking smiles Stan had ever seen, and once the noise had settled down, held up his hands.

“Thank you. And thank you all for coming down here today. Now, I’m sure you are all exhausted and wanting to retire for the evening, which I understand completely, trust me, so I promise I will keep this as short as I can.”

A mild roar built from the audience as many chuckled under their breath, and Gray cleared his throat before continuing.

“When I was in school, middle school to be exact, I was told by a teacher who I dearly loved that the most interesting stories of history came from those who were never able to tell them. Of course at this point in my life, I was young and immature, and the meaning of her words flew right over my head. At the time, it was also unheard of for anyone with a mutation to be open about it with their family, friends or peers. Many of my own friends used anti-mutant slurs, or suggested that there were ways of correcting it, or that those with mutations did not exist at all. And, it is in shame that I admit that I was never completely open-minded as a boy. Mutants, in our own little closed-off world, were a force I couldn’t understand and therefore was afraid of.

“In my years, however, I’ve learned. And I realized the meaning of my favorite teacher’s words. Those who she was speaking of, those whose stories were never heard, were not unheard because they were not interesting, nor because they were not worth listening to, but because nobody was willing to listen. I look out here today, into these young and extremely promising faces, and I feel such a sense of hope. Hope that they too can become part of a future where there will be no more hiding, there will be no more judgement and scorn. Because every single one of these amazing young people has or will have an amazing story to tell, if not thousands, or millions. I remember Mrs. Stidolph’s words now with the hope that these brilliant mutants will no longer have to hold their stories inside. That there will no longer be any missing stories from history. I hope that Evolutionary Genesis Institute will help our mutant children to not fear or hate their abilities, but to harness them, to make them theirs, to use them to benefit both themselves and the world they inhabit. Every single one of you tonight holds a gift, unique to yourself and powerful enough to shake the Earth to its core. I feel honored that I am able to be here for these truly spectacular young people, our future. And I hope that this institute can help them flourish, help them discover all the possibilities they are capable of, and help them find their stories. Let’s work together to create for a prosperous future for everyone.”

The audience roared, clapping loudly and with force, while a few whistles erupted from further back behind from where Stan was. Gray let out a bright, proud smile, and he returned to the microphone for one last message.

“Again, thank you for coming out tonight, and I look so forward to meeting and knowing every single one of you. Goodnight.”

Stan thought of Gray’s speech for hours afterward, even after he and his mom had driven to the Comfort Inn down the road and checked in for the night. He thought about being a mutant, thought about his dad and the skinny redhead and the gangly kid with sunglasses and the doofy brunet and his friends in Highlands Ranch and what he was actually doing. He thought about Gray’s speech, and wondered if he too had a story that he wanted someone to listen to.

His mom, exhausted from the day’s events, was asleep by midnight, curled up in one of the two beds in the room, and Stan sat at the desk with the lamp on and his headphones in while he calmed himself down and thought about everything.

Because he was nervous, and afraid and completely unsure about what was going to happen to him. His thoughts surged, from college to Sparky being without him at home and what people were going to say when he didn’t show up at his old school, the school where he’d planned to graduate from. With his music blasting in his ears, he drowned out his anxiety as the minutes ticked by, and his eyes moved from the clock to his hands to his iPod and back to the clock.

There had to have been a reason why he’d chosen this. There had to be something behind his actions, whether it was fate or just a simple want.

Maybe he had been tired of keeping it a secret. Maybe he had been wanting to figure that part of himself out, and maybe he figured that this was the best way to do it. And he wondered how many other kids felt the same way, how many others approached their parents and family and friends the same way with the hope that they wouldn’t get rejected but instead finally be able to tell their story.

Stan thought about his mutation. He’d kept it a secret for years, but not because he was scared of telling anyone. And when Stan pondered why he’d been so secretive, he found he didn’t really have an answer. He wasn’t proud of it, but wasn’t embarrassed by it, either. It was just…

Him.

It was 12:35 when he looked over at his mom, who’d fallen asleep with her David Sedaris book on her pillow, and he felt a coolness rush over him. She had spent the entire day talking to him, smiling at him, encouraging him, focusing on him and trying to make him happy. She hadn’t forced him into any situation he didn’t want to be in, hadn’t embarrassed him, but still kept him involved.

She’d made every single one of his Halloween costumes and had taken him trick-or-treating every year, without fail. She’d made all of his birthday cakes by scratch. She had helped him pick out Sparky.

And she’d been amazingly supportive of him.

He smiled without realizing it, and without any other worries plaguing him, he was able to curl into his own bed and fall asleep with ease.

 

* * *

 

The next morning was almost too beautiful. The sky was utterly blue without a cloud in sight, and Stan woke himself up at 6am to dress, snag a bagel from the continental breakfast, and make his way outside to listen to the birds. He’d done this many, many times at home, and felt he needed the comfort. Once in the fresh air, he whistled after the birds and caught their attention, tearing up bits of his bagel and feeding them, and they communicated their thanks in the best way they could.

He loitered behind the back parking lot by a crop of trees, attracting a few squirrels and a tiny chipmunk that he also gave handouts to. Before long, the bagel was gone without Stan even having a bite of it. Stan assumed animals were attracted to him, not just because of the whole mutant thing, but because he liked them, and animals always had that sixth sense about people. One of the squirrels climb its way up his arm and over his shoulders, and Stan stayed as long as he could before he trotted back into the hotel to get ready for the first day of school. It was a nice morning, even if his mini-nature walk did make him feel like a Disney princess.

His mom woke and ate her own breakfast while Stan took another bagel and nibbled at it, too nervous to take proper bites. They drove in silence, and after finding a better parking spot along the sidewalk, they wandered the walk to the Junior/Senior dorms and checked him into his room with arms full of Stan’s junk. A peppy man with a stupid bowl haircut checked Stan off on the list and tagged his bags, promising that they would be ready in his room after his orientation at 9:30.

With that, everything was done, and Stan and Sharon wandered back to the parking lot, back to her car. Before she could open her door, however, Sharon hesitated for a moment and whirled around, wordlessly throwing her arms around her son’s shoulders and squeezing tight.

“Are you sure about this, Stan?” she asked, almost mumbling into his shirt.

The sudden embrace had shocked Stan, but after a moment to breathe, he drew his arms around her back, ignoring the other parents and cars that moved around them. He remembered those costumes, the cakes, the assurance she made him feel about his decision, and he hugged her close to him.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ve got a good feeling about this.”

Sharon moved away just a bit, smiling and seemingly fighting back some tears.

“Oh, my baby,” she said as she pushed some of Stan’s hair out if his face, tucking some behind his ear and cupping his face with her hands. “You’ve got everything you need, right?”

“Yes, mom.”

“You didn’t forget anything.”

Stan couldn’t help but smile, if just faintly. He’d never seen her so worked up and worried, at least not like this.

“No, I promise.”

She smiled and let go entirely, subtly wiping at her eyes as if it were just her allergies bothering her. With a deep breath to clear her throat, she straightened herself up and looked Stan in the eye.

“Be sure to call me if you ever need anything else, because you know I’ll drive it up here in a heartbeat if you need me to.”

Stan’s face lit up and his smile grew. “I’m fine, mom. Promise. You’ll take care of Sparky, right?”

“Oh, of course I will.” They kept eye contact for a few moments before Sharon looked away and again rubbed a bit at her eyes. When her gaze returned, she was forcing herself to look stern, rather poorly at that. “I love that fat, old dog, too. And you’ll talk to someone about sports. And that job thing too, Stanley, I don’t want you to think that you get a free pass to be lazy on your off hours.”

“Mom-”

Stan was interrupted by his mom snorting back a sob and again throwing her arms around him, and he returned it instantly.

“I love you, Stanley.”

“Love you too, mom.” He meant it.

They let go, and Sharon wiped a tiny escaped tear off her cheek.

“You’ll be fine,” she said with a mother’s grin, assuring herself more than anything. “Go to orientation, make some friends and have fun.” With a final look at the looming castle of a school and a final ruffle of Stan’s hair, she opened her door and slid in, turning the key and rolling down the window when the engine had roared to life.

“Call me tonight, okay? No,” she quickly corrected after changing her mind, “Every week, I want a call every week. I’m not paying for that phone so you can just play app games all day, you got that?”

Stan grinned, patting at the pocket that held his cellphone. “I’ll call you once a week, I promise.”

Sharon smiled and waved as she backed the car out of its spot. “Have fun!” she almost shouted. “I’ll be waiting on that call! Love you!”

And with that, she had started along the road that lead out of the school’s property, her hand waving out the window before she rolled it up. Stan waved back, smiling and warmed in the sun as he watched her car disappear.

“Bye.”

 

And it was like waving the last of his former life goodbye.

 

* * *

 

 

_There's a science to walking through windows_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My headcannon for this universe's Kyle is that he wears nothing but sweaters because he thought Colorado would be cold year-round. Hopefully I'll make myself update every two weeks or so. Hopefully.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos!


	3. You Remind Me of Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late, I've had a lot of distractions as of late keeping me from updating. Still, I will finish this fanfic even if it kills me. Going through, it might even end up being 30+ chapters. Pray for me. Anyway, enjoy!

In accordance to everything else that Evolutionary Genesis Institute, which Stan had already mentally shortened to a simple EGI, had already presented him, a chipper administrator was happy to guide Stan to where he needed to be. He was pointed inside the main building and, before he knew it, he had ended up in the exact same lecture hall where his tour group had met up the day previous.

 

This time around, however, the seats were full of other students, who all moved to stare at the newest person to awkwardly grab their attention, which he tried to gracefully ignore as he looked for an open seat. He wasn’t late, thankfully, but there were very few places left open. The hall was far from huge, too, so the rest of the junior year must have been shoved into another hall somewhere nearby.

 

Soon enough, Stan spotted an empty seat at the end of the second row, next to the redhead who he’d toured the campus with the day before. In a room where everyone was a stranger to everyone else, Stan took a semblance of comfort in that he’d at least made parcial eye contact with this guy, and figured he might as well just sit next to him. He shuffled along to slide himself into the seat, noticing that the redhead was wearing yet another baggy green sweater that made him look way too small. Stan’s seating himself at his side didn’t seem to grab the guy’s attention, however, as he kept to the book that was in his hands, a set of thick black reading glasses stationed along the bump he had in his nose. Stan thought about looking to see what the book was, then realized how creepy that would've been and promptly decided against it.

 

The room was full of slight muttering here and there, people introducing themselves and talking about whatever, but Stan wasn’t really paying attention. Nobody had any backpacks or books or much of anything at all outside of the schedules, and they all seemed rather calm and collected despite the surreal setting. The strangest thing Stan figured was that there was no adult there yet, no teacher or supervisor or anything. Not even a mutant expert or whatever.

 

It was as Stan wondered if such a thing as a “mutant expert” existed that the door opened and two people entered, one of them being the blond English man who had introduced Principal Gray at the speech the previous night. The other was an older woman, probably in her late forties, and it was her who moved to stand directly in the center of the room’s front while the blond, whose name had slipped Stan’s mind, stationed himself against the wall by the door. He was the spectator, there to observe, and Stan felt a twinge of suspicion bloom inside the pit of his stomach.

 

“Good morning juniors,” the woman called up to the students, and most settled into silence to listen.  Stan tore his gaze away from the blond to give her his attention. “My name is Mrs. Lehrer, and I am one of the science professors here and Evolutionary Genesis Institute.” She seemed genuinely happy to be there, and Stan was almost surprised. A happy teacher was a phenomenon rare to witness firsthand, and he wondered if this new job paid her well. “So today will be dedicated to helping you figure out your schedules and meeting your new classmates. The plan is to do introductions first, and then we’ll let you go for lunch. After that, you can have the rest of the day to familiarizing yourself with the grounds and rest up for the testing we’ll be having tomorrow. After testing day, regular school schedules will be in effect.”

 

“Excuse me.” Stan turned to see the redhead next to him holding up his hand and calling out for Mrs. Lehrer’s attention. She gladly gave it to him.

 

“Yes, young man?”

 

“I would like to know the exact details of tomorrows testing,” the redhead said as he took his reading glasses off and placed them on the table in front of him. “Like, what you’ll be testing, exactly.”

 

Mrs. Lehrer moved to sit at the teacher’s desk at to her right.

 

“Well, it’s all fairly simple. You’ll all be graded based on a studied performance involving your mutations, your capabilities and capacities. It’s not a competition and it’s not a grade that will affect your academic performance, but it’s important for us to document each and every student’s proficiency and test you based on a number system. Does that make sense?”

 

The redhead merely nodded, like he’d been forced to ask the question in the first place and hadn’t really cared about the answer. With the guy’s mother, Stan figured that there was a good chance that it was true.

 

“Further information can be found in your guides, and I’ll happily take questions after orientation” Mrs. Lehrer said, taking a remote control from inside her desk and pointing it toward the board. The screen instantly clicked on, and the board suddenly had a list presented on it. “Alright, everyone, I’ll call you up by last name, and would like for you to say your name, where you live, your mutation, what kind of career path you’d like to pursue after graduation, and one thing you hope this institute will help you accomplish.”

 

The list was just that, as a means to remind students and help them prepare their answers beforehand. Stan took mental note and began forming his what he would say so he wouldn’t come across as an idiot to the people he’d have to be around for the next two years. First impressions, after all, were important.

 

The first was Lola Abney, a girl with clairvoyance from Wisconsin. A few others went by, one with the ability to spit acid, another who could breathe under water, one who could talk to electronics, and a boy named Token Black who had super strength, or, as he called it, “the ability to lift things vastly heavier than a normal person could lift.”

 

It was all going fast enough, and finally there was a name that Mrs. Lehrer couldn’t pronounce properly. It was going to happen sooner or later.

 

“Next we have Kyle… Bro…”

 

“Broflovski.”

 

Next to Stan, the redhead stood. He placed his glasses on top of his book, shuffled past Stan and down to the center spot, and Stan was finally able to get a good look at him without feeling creepy. Kyle was skinny but with a round face and ears, his skin pale and his eyes sharp and the brightest green Stan had ever seen in his life.

 

“Sorry, Mr. Broflovski,” Mrs. Lehrer apologizes, and Kyle responded without even turning around.

 

“It’s fine, everyone mispronounces it.”

 

He was almost impossibly calm, Stan noted, watching as Kyle took in the faces of the rest of his classmates with a tranquility that Stan was immediately jealous of.

 

“Hi. I’m Kyle, I’m from San Francisco, and I’m telekinetic.” Unlike some of the other students before him, Kyle made no move to demonstrate his powers, but instead just kept talking in the most rehearsed voice he could have possibly used. “I’ve also got some telepathy and some mental shielding, although I’m definitely nowhere near as good at that. I would hope to graduate from Harvard with a Masters degree in Neuroscience… and, I guess I want a good recommendation from the Human and Mutant Coalition. For college. So I can make something of myself.”

 

Kyle’s quiet determination was almost scary. After he’d finished, he returned to where he was sitting, and Mrs. Lehrer continued.

 

Next was Timothy Burch, the only student in the room in a wheelchair. He stayed where he was in the first row, and Mrs. Lehrer mentioned that his ability was something called echolocation, and Stan could only guess as to what that meant.

 

“Thank you, Timmy. Eric Cartman?”

 

“Finally,” was muttered behind Stan. He quietly turned to see a tall and powerful looking boy with shaggy brown hair move from his seat and in front of the other students. He was wearing a comfortable red hoodie, and every action he took exuded confidence. He had a belly, round ears and nose, and brown eyes that almost looked black.

 

“Eric Cartman,” he began, sounding like he was pitching himself, “from Denver, Colorado, and I can do this.” He held out his right hand and, from the cup of his palm, a collection of sparks erupted and stopped only when he balled his fist. He grinned with all of his teeth. “Pretty sweet, right? What I want-”

 

The brunet’s dark brown eyes were surveying the crowd, but, as he spoke, Stan swore his gaze landed somewhere close to him. It was almost as though he were directing his words… Kyle. He was looking at Kyle, Stan was sure of it.

 

“-Is to become stronger. And there’s no way in hell I’d share my goals for the future with anyone. Since they are awesome and amazing, I’m terribly afraid that someone might steal them should they ever be presented with the opportunity to do so. But don’t worry,” he finished with a happy grin. “I’ll definitely be making something of myself.”

 

Stan didn’t feel it was his place to look over and see if Kyle noticed this, as well, but with the way Eric finished his sentence in almost the exact same way as Kyle did, there was definitely something up with the two of them.

 

“Okay, thank you, Eric,” Mrs. Lehrer smiled, and Eric returned to his seat. “Alright, next is Christophe DeLorn.”

 

Nobody moved.

 

“Is he not-?”

 

Before she could finish, however, the blond standing against the wall spoke up.

 

“Sorry to interrupt, Ma’am. Mr. DeLorn is a transfer student from Lyon, France. I’m afraid his English is not that clear as of yet. If you wouldn’t mind letting him sit this one out, I’m sure he would appreciate it.”

  


Lehrer was so charmed by this dapper young man that she grinned and instantly accepted that.

 

“Oh, no, Mr. Thorn, not at all. There’s no problem.”

 

Mr. Thorn, Stan remembered, that was his name. Something with a G Thorn. Thorn took this time to approach a student in the front row, one with ragged brown hair and deep bags under his eyes. This much have been Christophe, and Stan listened as they mumbled back and forth in French.

 

“Vous êtes bien, vous n'êtes pas obligé de parler. Nous ne voulons pas de problèmes,” Thorn said, and the French guy shrugged.

 

“Vraiment je ne me soucie pas.”

  


“I suppose that means that next will be Clyde Donovan,” Mrs. Lehrer said, and from one of the higher seats jumped the stocky brunet that Stan had toured with the day before. He was wearing the same dumb letter jacket and the same stupid grin.

 

“What’s up, guys, I am Clyde Donovan, coolest kid you’ll ever meet from St. Louis, and I can multiply. What’s better than one Clyde?” Clyde’s form slid like paper, splitting into multiple different physical bodies. “Five Clydes, that’s what,” said the original as four other versions of himself stood close by with grins of their own, and in another blink, they’d morphed back into their initial body. “Yeah, it’s pretty cool. Um, I dunno what I want as far as a career, but I want to be the kind of guy who is his own boss. And I just wanted a new change of scenery."

 

Stan waited patiently for his name as other students took their turn. There were at least a hundred kids in the same room, so he took his time to properly word his answers in his head.

 

Finally, his name was called.

 

“Alright, next we have… Stanley Marsh.”

 

Nerves suddenly squirming about in his belly, Stan stood and moved down the stairs, and fit himself where everyone else had been previously. There were hundred of eyes on him, and he knew he was thankful his last name wasn’t at the end of the alphabet.

 

“It’s just Stan,” he corrected. “Actually. So, hi. My name’s Stan, I’m-”

 

“Stop!” someone hissed. Stan looked over, as did everyone else, to see Kyle glaring over his shoulder at Eric Cartman, who was seated behind him. Eric himself looked baffled as to why Kyle was even speaking to him at all.

 

“Is there a problem, Mr. Broflovski?” Mrs. Lehrer asked, and once Kyle realized the attention he’d gotten, he swiftly turned forward in his seat, his face slightly pink.

 

“No. Sorry.”

 

Mrs. Lehrer huffed under her breath before motioning for Stan to continue.

 

“Um, yeah,” Stan said, speaking up so that everyone could hear him. “My name’s Stan, and I-”

 

“Will you stop that!”

 

It was Kyle again, his voice shrill and sharp and pissed. He’d whirled backward and snapped in Eric’s face, although over what, Stan couldn’t tell.

 

“Mr. Broflovski!” Mrs. Lehrer gasped, a frown stretching across her jaw.

 

Kyle turned to face her so as to properly defend himself, pointing to the brunet. “He keeps shocking me!”

 

Eric gasped, looking so innocent he had to be guilty. “I can assure you that I am doing no such thing,” he assured Mrs. Lehrer, but the lanky boy with black hair sitting next to him spoke up.

 

“Whatever, dude, you totally were.”

 

“That’s fucking slander!” Eric cried, slamming his fist onto the table.

 

Mrs. Lehrer herself stood to make order, and Stan saw Mr. Thorn tense and take a few steps forward out of the corner of his eye.

 

“Mr. Cartman!” she scolded. “Please refrain from cursing. You and Mr. Broflovski need to sit down and be respectful now.”

 

With a scowl and tensed shoulders, Kyle did as he was told and returned to his chair. Eric Cartman did the same, and Stan watched as he leaned forward and said, loud enough that even Stan could hear-

 

“Stupid Jew.”

 

Everyone froze, including Mrs. Lehrer and Thorn, but Kyle wasted no time. He spun around in his chair and stood, and before Eric could respond, he’d been hoisted forcefully into the air, pulled about five feet off the ground by nothing but Kyle’s willpower.

 

“What did you call me!?” Kyle barked, and Stan swore that he could see bits of Kyle’s hair being lightly tussed about by what looked like wind.

 

The blond sitting to Eric’s right let out a little yell, and both he and the dark haired boy at Eric’s left moved back and watched as the brunet struggled in the invisible grip of Kyle’s telekinesis.  Stan stood where he was, almost petrified, and it seemed that no one else had any idea of how to react, either. Mrs. Lehrer was about to shout something, but before she could, Mr. Thorn ran past Stan and up to the seats.

 

“Mr. Broflovski, set him down,” he ordered, almost impossibly calm. Stan honestly didn’t think that that would work, but whatever he had done did the trick. Kyle made eye contact with Thorn from over his shoulder, took in a deep breath and lowered Eric down and back into his seat. The brunet’s face was bright red, his face twisted in embarrassment, and he had to shuffle back into his chair to avoid falling to the floor once Kyle had let him go completely.

 

“Okay, okay!” Mrs. Lehrer had gotten control of herself and stood, placing herself next to Mr. Thorn. She pointing at both Kyle and Eric before moving her finger towards the door. “You two! Out! Now!”

 

Kyle opened his mouth, as if to protest, but he bit back whatever he’d meant to say, balled his fists, and snatched up his book and glasses. Eric followed with a frown of his own, glaring daggers into the back of Kyle’s head.

 

Mr. Thorn laid a hand on her shoulder and gave her a charming smile. “I’ll escort them to the office, Ma’am.”

 

She grinned back at him, batted her eyelashes a few times. “Thank you, Mr. Thorn,” she almost cooed, returning to her desk as the blond began ushering both Kyle and Eric out of the room.

 

“Come on, then,” Thorn was saying as Kyle huffed past him and towards the door, Eric following right behind.

 

“Look what you did,” Stan heard the brunet hissing under his breath in Kyle’s direction, and the redhead spat his retort much louder.

 

“What _I_ did? You’re fucking kidding, right?”

 

“Jesus,” Stan muttered to himself as Thorn closed the door behind them. He wondered if Thorn was in way over his head having two mutants pissed off at each other in his company, speculating on if Thorn himself had a power that could save his skin should he need it.

 

It was only when Mrs. Lehrer spoke that Stan realized that he was stood out in the front of the room in full view of everyone. He straightened up and sucked in his breath, his mind erasing all the answers he’d perfectly crafted before the commotion as the sensation of vacancy engulfed him.

 

“Please, Stanley,” Mrs. Lehrer said from her desk. “Continue.”

 

“It’s just Stan,” he stammered out, “and I can talk to animals.” He hesitated, brain scrambling to recall what he’d had planned. Thanks to Kyle and Eric, that was all gone now. “Well, not talk exactly, but… like… I can empathetically sense what they’re communicating. I guess. It’s weird. And…” Another pause, and he almost felt like he was drowning in his awkward blunders. “Okay, so I’m from Denver. Highlands Ranch, really, which is just south of Denver, and, since I’m good with animals… for obvious reasons, I’d like to be a vet. And.” He took a moment to look back at the screen to make sure he was on track. “I guess I just want to figure my mutation out. How it works, and what I can use it for. Plus I’ve never met any mutants before, so I figured why not.”

 

Stan finished and trudged back to his seat as quickly as he could, red in the face and embarrassed. He’d fucked up pretty bad, and he was sure that everyone else in the room surely though he was a complete idiot with how he’d acted.

 

“Thank you, Stan,” Mrs. Lehrer said, sounding perfectly fine with the performance he’d given. “Next we have Mr. Kenny McCormick.”

 

“Figures that dumbass got kicked out before I got called,” Stan heard from behind him. He moved to look over his shoulder, but turned the other direction when the owner of the voice moved past him and down the stairs.

 

Mr. Kenny McCormick was a short and button-nosed blond with a golden head of hair and the dullest blue eyes- no, gray eyes, Stan mused. They were gray. On his torso was a worn down and slightly tattered orange parka, his face lightly dotted with freckles and his eyelashes surprisingly thick and dark for someone with yellow hair. He stood in the same spot in the front with a quiet and calm sense about him, and when he and Stan met eyes, he smiled.

  
“So, I’m Kenny,” he began, thrusting his hands into his coat pockets. “I’m from Sterling, and so is Cartman, and…” He hesitated, too, although seemingly for dramatic effect, since his next words came out effortlessly. “I can’t die. Like, I really should be buried six feet under by this point, but my body just puts itself back. Problem is, I don’t really have a goal. Not for school, or for a job, or anything. Never really seemed a big priority ‘til now. So I don’t have much of an answer for those last ones.”

 

With Kyle and Eric out of the room, everything went smoothly.

 

Bebe Stevens was a girl from Carrie, Illinois, who could transform into whoever she wanted. Her actual form had thick and frizzy blond hair that she’d pulled back into a ponytail. She made a quick demonstration for the class by temporarily turning into Mrs. Lehrer and then Jennifer Lawrence before telling everyone she wanted a career in Marine Biology.

 

“Thank you, Ms. Stevens. Next we have Leopold Stotch.”

 

Even without completing the list, Stan knew that “Leopold Stotch” won as far as the strangest name. Leopold was the tiny blond Stan had also seen in yesterday’s group, and he was as cheerful now as he had been then.

 

“Hi,” he began, and Stan couldn’t help but speculate where that accent had come from, “my name is Leopold, but everyone usually just calls me Butters. I’m from Richmond, Virginia, and I can bring things to life. Things that weren’t alive before, like pencils and curtains and vacuums. I almost gave my mom a heart attack once by makin’ the lamp in our living room dance around. Well, I don’t think I make them alive, exactly, but they can move and stuff. My old coach called it animation. Um, I guess I just want to do what I can, go to school and maybe own my own bookstore or start a game company or something. Or I could be a librarian, or a kindergarten teacher! Something fun like that. So, that’s me.”

 

Butters was an even worse name than Leopold, but Stan could see how the nickname fit the butter blond. As he turned to leave, Mrs. Lehrer called Butters back.

 

“Oh, Leopold, what would you like for the school to accomplish for you?”

 

“Uh, well.” Butters bit at his lip, and looked up to the other students. “My parents want the school to get rid of my powers.”

 

Butters paused and for a solid moment, everything was dead silent. Nobody moved or made even the smallest noise, and Stan wondered if that was because they all felt the same rush of ice through their veins like he did. There were probably a ton of kids there for the same reason, but Butters was the only one who could even voice it. His parents wanted to change him, to make him “normal.” Stan let that sink in as he sucked air into his lungs and held his breath.

 

Standing there in the awkward atmosphere he’d created, Butters eventually stuttered to get back on track. “But I really like them, and I want to keep them, so I guess I just wanted to meet a bunch of other people like me, too.”

 

Even Mrs. Lehrer looked a bit worried. “Thank you very much, Leopold.”

 

“Oh, you can call me Butters, Ma’am,” the blond said with a cheerful smile as he returned to his seat.

 

“Okay. Next is Wendy Testinburger.”

 

“That’s Wendy Testaburger, Ma’am.” The voice was sharp and mature, sounding from behind Stan. He immediately turned to watch a skinny girl with impossibly long black hair descend the steps to his left and station herself up front. She stood straight, held her hands behind her back, and had to most focused expression Stan had ever seen, even moreso than Kyle.

 

She was also super cute. Stan sucked the air back into his lungs as he leaned forward and listened.

 

“Hello, my name is Wendy, and I can manipulate the element of fire.” She said this as she held out her left hand, creating a tiny little ball of fire about an inch from her skin. After a second, she continued, taking back her hand and addressing the audience as though she were being interviewed. “I’m from Tacoma, Washington, and attended a private school in Seattle before I received my invitation to attend this academy. For my future, I have the dream of becoming a law student at Yale before earning my Masters so I can be up and running my own firm by my early 30s. I believe fully that mutants are oppressed here in the United States despite being full-fledged citizens, and am appalled by how our government and therefore society is treating those who have the X-gene. So, naturally, when I was invited to attend a prestigious institute built for the specific purpose of helping young mutants with their abilities, to encourage instead of shame, I jumped at the chance. I wish to see this institute flourish, and wanted to try it out for myself.”

 

Many guys might be detracted by some of the things Wendy said. Politics, extreme devotion to intelligence and justice, and that whole controlling fire thing, but Stan was impressed. He watched her ascend the stairs with a light fluttering in his chest, and when his stomach got heavy, he hoped it wasn’t nausea.

 

“That was wonderful. Thank you, Ms. Testiburger.”

 

Wendy stopped and turned, a slight frown on her face. “Testaburger, Ma’am.”

 

“Of course,” Mrs. Lehrer muttered. “Now, Mr. Craig Tucker, if you could join us up here.”

 

The gangly kid that had been sitting next to Eric, the one with the sunglasses, did as he was told. His facial features were all pointed and sharp. He wasn’t smiling or frowning, didn’t look uptight or too relaxed, he just got up there with a straight face and did what he was supposed to.

 

“I’m Craig.” He touched his glasses, shuffling them slightly on his nose. “I can’t take these off, because that’s my mutation, which is lasers that come out of my eyes. It’s not a constant thing, but sometimes I could, I dunno, sneeze and trigger it, and it goes off and breaks a ton of stuff, so I’m being cautious, now. Let’s see, I’m from Salem, New Jersey, I wanna be an architect, and my parents forced me to be here.” He paused. “So, yeah.” And left to go back to his seat without another word.

 

“Thank you, Craig,” Mrs. Lehrer sighed. With so many students to get through, she was exhausted.

 

The list was finished by the next half hour, and Stan had seen and heard of so many mutations, some he would have never been aware of, otherwise. By noon, the students were released for lunch, and without having anyone that he’d sat next to or met for most of the period, Stan walked by himself in the crowded hallways and stood in line at the cafeteria. He’d picked out a turkey club sandwich with fries for the side, paid using the new student ID he had in his wallet, and found himself an empty table on the first floor.

 

He sat there with his earphones in, quietly taking in the world around him, when somebody tapped on his shoulder.

 

Stan looked up, instantly struck by the impossible red. It was Kyle, a pleasant smile on his face. Stan pulled out his earphones to see what he wanted.

 

“Hey,” Kyle grinned.

 

“Um, hi,” Stan said after swallowing down the sandwich in his mouth, and without being invited to, Kyle sat down next to him.

 

“I wanted to apologize.”

 

“For what?” Stan asked, honestly confused. Kyle hadn’t done a thing to him, after all.

 

“Interrupting you,” Kyle answered with a tiny sigh, flashing Stan an apologetic look. “Sorry, it was rude.”

 

“It’s fine. That Cartman guy was shocking you.” Stan almost said “Eric”, but instead used his last name the same way Kenny had. For some reason, it seemed a much better fit.

 

Kyle let out an angry breath and rolled his eyes.“Yeah, he’s a prick. I don’t know what I did to piss him off, but he wasn’t letting up. But I didn’t mean to mess up your introduction.” There was a hesitation, and the redhead held out his hand for a shake as he balanced his tray on his left arm. “I’m Kyle.”

 

Stan already knew that, but he decided to go with it. “Stan,” he said as he took Kyle’s hand and gave it one single shake. He expected Kyle to be gone after his apology, but the San Franciscan stayed where he was and leaned against the table as he picked at his own lunch.

 

“So, what is it, then?” Kyle casually asked, and Stan had to think back to where in the conversation they were. In lieu of his confusion, his brain came up with the only response appropriate for the time.

 

“What?”

 

Kyle’s grin widened as he pierced his salad with his fork and stuffed the lettuce into his mouth. “Your mutation, dude. I didn’t get to hear it.”

 

Stan thought about it for a second. “In comparison to yours, it’s pretty lame,” he eventually said, truthfully. He’d witnessed Kyle doing amazing things firsthand without hardly knowing him, so Stan figured he wouldn’t be impressed with his ability to know what a dog was thinking.

 

“Oh, come on,” Kyle prompted, “I’m sure it’s cool.”

 

“I…” Stan looked over at him with the full intent on keeping the redhead guessing, but stopped. Kyle had a terribly honest face. An expressive one, too, and as they kept up the eye contact, Stan couldn’t find it in himself to be dishonest.

 

“Okay, fine,” he said. “I talk to animals.”

 

“Really?” Kyle’s smile fell and his eyes widened slightly as he leaned closer. He didn’t sound as indifferent as Stan thought he should be.

 

“Like I said, it’s pretty lame.”

 

Kyle let out a snort. “Dude, whatever, I think that’s pretty sweet. How do you do it? Does your brain like translate it to English or something?”

 

Stan almost wanted to laugh at how suddenly invested Kyle was, or at least was pretending to be. It was near impossible to tell whether he was serious or not, so Stan decided to play it straight and be nice. He needed some friends, anyway, and Kyle’s emotional energy, the little Stan felt, was super inviting and affable. No point in being an anti-social prick.

 

“No, it’s all empathetic and shit. I can sense what they’re thinking, almost, and it just kind of calculates it. I think they know it, too, because animals always follow me everywhere.” Kyle still looked fascinated, so Stan let out a smile and shook his head. “Dude, I saw you pick that electricity guy with your mind, there’s no way you’re impressed by this.”

 

“I’m serious!” Kyle protested.

 

At that moment, a new voice chimed in. Stan and Kyle both glanced up to see Kenny McCormick, standing awkwardly with his tray of food with a look of pure causality on his face. “Hey, mind if I join you? Everywhere else is full, and I kind-of sort-of know you.”

 

“Knock yourself out,” Kyle said with a shrug before turning back to his food. His smile had fallen, just a bit. Kenny took the time to look over at Stan for confirmation, so Stan nodded and motioned to the spot on his other side. The blond let a breath out of his nose, smiled, and slipped into the seat. He plopped down his tray with a sandwich and cutie and turned to speak to Kyle from around Stan.

 

“You’re the guy that got kicked out with Cartman.” Stan noticed Kyle’s expression sour slightly, and Kenny laughed. “Sorry about that, he’s an idiot. I’m Kenny. And you’re Kyle,” he said with a point to the redhead before turning it to Stan instead. “And you’re Stan. Moving shit with your brain, and talking to animals.”

 

“Telekinesis,” Kyle corrected as the stabbed a strawberry and bit down on it. “But I’ve got some telepathy, too.”

 

“So you could read my mind?” Kenny asked. Stan listened, wondering where Kenny had kept this energy the last he’d seen him. “Like right now?”

 

Kyle let out another shrug. “Not really. I kind of can, if I concentrate. But the real question is, do I want to read your thoughts?”

 

Kenny let out a laugh, a real laugh from his gut, and he smacked his knee. Kyle also smiled for the first time since Kenny sat down, and Stan felt it in himself to smile, too. “No. No you do not.”

 

He must have somehow past Kyle’s test of character, because the psychic was suddenly happy to include him in their conversation. “Stan was just telling me about how he can talk to animals, since fatass and I missed it.”

 

“Ooh,” Kenny said as he leaned closer to Stan. “Do tell.”

 

“You guys seriously don’t have to pretend to be impressed,” Stan said between them. “I’m fully aware that my power is pretty lame in comparison to telekinesis and indestructibility.”

 

“What?” Kenny gasped, and Stan again was having trouble knowing whether he was being serious or not. He really was bad with people. “Who said anything about that being lame?”

 

“Think of all the scientific breakthroughs we could make by communicating with animals!” Kyle added, and he jumped when another tray of food all but crashed onto the table next to him.

 

“Yeah, like how Fido here can stand listening to your voice.”

 

Everybody instantly looked up to see Cartman, in all his glory, grinning down at Kyle with all the subtlety of a clown, and Stan frowned at his new nickname. He really was a huge guy, Stan reflected, and he noticed Kyle bristling like a cat at his side.

 

“Dude, Cartman,” Kenny started, but he stopped when Cartman’s eyes flicked over to him as the brunet took the seat on Kyle’s other side.

 

“What?” he asked. His tone was dripping with insincerity.

 

Kyle’s grin and pleasant attitude were out the window by this point. Stan could only imagine the shitty thoughts going through redhead’s mind as Cartman’s insult sunk in, but he must have decided to take the higher ground and use words instead of force.

 

“Look,” Kyle said after a deep breath in through his nose. “I don’t know what I did to piss you off, but I really don’t give a shit. Could you just, I dunno, fuck off?”

 

Cartman snorted. “I’m just trying to sit and have lunch with my friend Kenny, here,” he said. He and his toothy grin were in Kyle’s face, and even without his empathy working well with people, Stan could literally feel Kyle’s aggravation rolling off him in waves. “No need to rude, Jew.”

 

Kenny groaned. “Cartman, just shut up.” But his attempt at being a peacekeeper failed utterly as Kyle grabbed hold of Cartman’s shirt collar and gave him a particularly violent shove. The brunet almost fell out his chair, but he kept himself upright after grabbing the table edge for stability. A few people at nearby tables hushed their voices and peered over to see if a fight was going to break out, something Stan was pretty sure wasn’t outside of the realm of possibilities.

 

“What’s your fucking deal?” Kyle growled through his teeth.

 

“I dunno, just something about you struck a nerve.” Cartman kept his stance and sat up straight. Kyle was only slightly shorter than Stan, but he looked like a goddamn kid in comparison to Cartman. Still, he stood his ground. “What, you gonna pick me up again?”

 

Kyle obviously had some kind of anger problem, one he must have been consciously working on, since he took in another deep breath and settled back into his seat. “And make you scream like a little girl? No, I’m above that. Plus I don’t think it’d be as funny a second time.”

 

That definitely pissed Cartman off, since that smirk of his was practically slapped off his face. When he opened his mouth to retort, however, another couple of bodies approached the table and proved a decent distraction for everyone.

 

“Is it cool if we sit with you?” It was Craig, as stoic as he’d been that morning, with Clyde, Token and Tweek flanking him. “Everywhere else is full of seniors and girls.”

 

“Sit between fatty and red,” Clyde said with a stupid grin, motioning to Cartman giving Kyle his best death glare. “It looks like they’re about ready to kill each other.”

 

“Pretty much,” Kenny said, straight faced. He was probably being serious. Stan peeked over to see Cartman still glaring at Kyle, his cheeks almost pink and his hairy eyebrows furrowed down, but with a grunt, he got up and moved to sit by Kenny, instead. Tweek took his spot, and Kyle visibly calmed down a good few notches.

 

“Working out your problems like adults?” the brunet, Clyde, asked as he cracked open his soda. The question wasn’t really directed at Kyle or Cartman specifically, but Kyle chose to respond.

 

“I doubt it.”

 

Cartman didn’t say anything.

 

“So, dude,” Clyde said as he turned to Kenny, his eyes wide and stupidly curious. “Tell me if I’m overstepping my boundaries or whatever, but you can’t die? Like, at all?”

 

Kenny hesitated, his mouth twisted and expression almost beyond words, but it instantly morphed into a sloppy grin. “I got shot once, right here,” he said far too casually, pointing to the right of his forehead. Stan couldn’t help but stare at the specific point of the blond’s skull and see it cracked open, and he felt his stomach flip. “Healed up in seconds. I did black out for like a minute, though.”

 

Tweek made a frightened gasp sound that startled Kyle a bit, but nobody else seemed to notice. The only other person to immediately react was Cartman, who let air out of his nose without even bothering to look up from his mac and cheese.

 

“Damn, that’s fucked up,” Craig remarked. “Cool, but fucked up.”

 

Kenny laughed. “You shoot lasers from your retinas and it’s me who’s fucked up?”

 

“Actually, it’s lit radiation that forms in the gel that makes up the center of my eyes, and is collected along the retina and outlets through the pupil,” Craig corrected, and Token groaned over his tray, dropping his fork. He was the only one using actual metal cutlery, and Stan wondered if Token had to use them just to avoid instantly breaking the plastic wear the rest of them had.

 

“Guys, could we maybe talk about something else?” Token asked. “I’m trying to eat.”

 

“Whatever, dude,” Craig said. He must have been rolling his eyes under those glasses, Stan was sure of it.

 

“I agree with him,” Stan said. All eyes turned to him, but he found that it didn’t bother him. “I’d like to keep my lunch in my stomach, if you don’t mind.”

 

Craig snorted. “Lightweights.”

 

“Nobody wants to hear about your eyeball gunk, Tucker,” Kenny retorted, and Craig flipped him a casual bird, causing most of them to laugh. Even Kyle was chuckling.

 

Cartman left first, quickly and without saying anything, and once he was out of view, Kyle sat up straighter and got all the more involved in the conversation that had built up about the last Superbowl. Stan occasionally threw in his two cents, and whatever nervous kinks he’d had in his system were gone by the time everyone was up and leaving.

 

Stan stood up to throw his trash away and leave his tray, and when he turned around, Kyle was there, his eyes wide and expectant.

 

“Wanna go look around with me?”

 

“Sure,” Stan nodded. He was actually grateful, since a part of him had wanted some company through the day, and he was glad that it was Kyle and that the redhead had approached him first.

 

“I wanted to find all my classrooms, and I figured we could do that together,” Kyle said, discarding his own garbage.

 

“Sounds great.”

 

They left in a decently comfortable silence, but upon leaving through the side doors of the cafeteria and out into the sunlight, Kyle continued. “Sorry if I’m bossy. It’s because I am. Or, actually.” He sighed. “I’m really bad at making friends. At least I think I am.”

 

“I think you’re doing fine,” Stan said with a shrug. He was being honest. “Although I’m totally way worse at it than you, so I might not be the best to tell you that.”

 

Kyle smiled at that, his eyelashes almost invisible in the light, but it died down as he pulled at his sweater’s collar.

 

“Shit, why is it so hot?” he asked.

 

There was a beat until Stan realized that Kyle was serious. “It’s August, dude.”

 

“Isn’t Colorado supposed to be, like, always super cold and snowy?”

 

“You’re thinking of Canada, I think,” Stan said as he shook his head, and he bit back a laugh when Kyle frowned up at the sun. “Or Greenland or something. Seriously, though, we get a lot of snow in the winter, and sometimes June, but we get super hot summers.”

 

“It’s a great thing I mostly only brought sweaters with me, then.” Kyle nudged his way out of his sweater and tied the sleeves around his waist when Stan noticed his T-shirt. It was the poster for the first Terrance and Phillip movie from the late 90s, _Asses of Fire_.

 

“You like Terrance and Phillip?” Stan asked, sounding the most energized he’d been all day.

 

Kyle blinked twice, then let a goofy grin take over his jaw when he realized where Stan’s interest was coming from. “Okay, I wear this shirt around my friends back home all the time, and they made fun of me so hard I had to say I bought it ironically so they’d leave me alone. But I’ve honestly watched _Asses of Fire_ near a thousand times. It’s dumb as shit, but I love it.”

 

Stan nodded. “Truly a gem of the 1990s filmography. My mom banned it in our house, so I had to watch it at my friend’s house until I was fifteen. I think he still has the original VHS.”

 

“Oh my god, that’s amazing,” Kyle laughed. “My mom banned it, too, but she still won’t let me watch it.”

 

Stan let out a laugh, but when Kyle didn’t respond, he stopped.

 

“Seriously?” he asked, and Kyle gave him a small nod as he awkwardly moved his weight from one foot to the other. His grin had fallen just slightly, and he suddenly looked a little uncomfortable.

 

“Uh, yeah.” They were like that for a moment before Kyle decided to change the subject, and Stan was happy to comply. “I have all the seasons on DVD, too.”

 

“Even season seven?” Season seven was the final and most rare season, mostly because it had been banned in America for its three abortion jokes and the use of the word “queef.”

 

Kyle nodded. “I had to bid over a hundred bucks on eBay and have it shipped down from Canada, but yeah. Totally worth it.”

 

The conversation kept on track for the most part aside from a few awkward blunders here and there, but with their schedules in hand and new buildings to explore, the atmosphere was as relaxed as Stan figured Kyle could get. They’d made it up to the third floor of the second building, one where most of the math and science classes were, when a voice called out from amid a crowd of what looked like freshmen, catching Kyle’s attention.

 

“Hey, dork!”

 

Kyle instantly looked up and turned in the direction of the light insult, and Stan stopped and turned to see a tiny, skinny kid with stylish black hair approach them. The kid, who had been socializing with the group of chatty freshmen, was smirking ear-to-ear, his brown eyes reflecting the sunlight from the nearest window.

 

Despite the name-calling, Kyle seemed happy to have run into this kid. “Don’t test me, brat,” he warned, but his voice was warm and friendly. Stan was about to open his mouth to speak when the kid’s eyes flicked over to him.

 

“Who’s this?”

 

Remembering that Stan was there with him, Kyle straightened up a bit. “Ike, this is Stan,” the redhead said, motioning between the two. “Stan, this is my little brother, Ike.”

 

Little brother. Stan stood there, lost completely to the idea that these two brothers who were super comfortable with each other looked absolutely nothing alike. Sure they were both pale and skinny, but the similarities between them ended there. Ike was slightly more tanned, had a sharp and pointed nose and ears with the slightest bit of muscle on his arms, probably from playing sports or something. He was wearing a hockey jersey and had the straightest and thinnest hair Stan had ever seen. Kyle, contrastly, was as pale and gangly as they came, short even with those brown boots and adorned in a stupid movie poster shirt with that amazing red hair that sprung like coils from his scalp.

 

“U-” Stan attempted to speak, but Ike interrupted him.

 

“Um, hi.” It was a little disconcerting, given that was exactly what Stan was going to say, even in the exact same tone, and Ike seemed to take in his confusion with an ever-widening grin. He turned to Kyle, gesturing to Stan with his thumb. “He seems nice.”

 

Kyle rolled his eyes, sighing. “Stop being a dick, Ike. Now, did you want something?”

 

“Mom said I had to give this to you,” Ike said as he reached into his backpack and pulled out an envelope, handing it over to his older brother. “She also told me a lot of other stuff, but I forgot what.”

 

That got Kyle frowning, and he crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows just slightly. “You’ve got precognition and you _forgot_.”

 

Ike’s impish smirk remained in place and he shrugged his shoulders. “Strange how that works. Anyway, I’ve got places to be. Have fun with your new boyfriend.”

 

The kid turned tail and was gone as quickly as he’d come, and with how calmly Kyle transitioned back into what they were doing beforehand, Stan figured that the two must be like that all the time. He was made a little awkward by the use of the term “boyfriend”, but Kyle seemed to barely notice it at all. Must be from living in San Francisco.

 

“He seems…” He paused, searching for the best word. “Energetic.”

 

Kyle chuckled at that. “Nah, he’s an asshole. But, hey, he’s my little brother, I’m contractually obligated to care about the turd.”

 

“You two look nothing alike,” Stan said as they made their way down the hall. “Does he take after your dad or something?”

 

“Uh, no.” Kyle shook his head, and Stan almost wanted to smile with the way the redhead’s curls bounced around. “He’s adopted. It’s kind of a miracle we ended up siblings, what with us both being mutants, and both psychic to boot. Only difference is that he can see the future, which only serves to heighten his assholish tendencies. Honestly, there’s nothing worse than a brother you can’t even prank.” As he spoke, he tore open the envelope and pulled out its contents, although his slightly hopeful expression was soon dropped. “Oh, joy, my daily nurses pass,” he said as dryly as possible.

 

“What do you need that for?” Stan asked, but then reared back a bit. “Or should I not ask?”

 

Kyle laughed, and as if to solidify their newly formed friendship, he gave Stan a light punch in the arm. “It’s just for my insulin, dude, I’m not contagious. Unless your mutation is the ability to absorb my diabetes, I think we’ll be fine.” He and Stan continued on, and Stan wondered what it was about Kyle that made him feel so warm and at-ease.

 

Stan kept to Kyle’s side the rest of the day out of an honest sense of companionship. They went through Kyle’s schedule first, and of course Stan was impressed with the courses he was taking- Advanced placement on both Physics and Calculus, Psychology, Human Anatomy, Sociology, Introduction to Health Sciences, and something called Reaching Your Academic Potential, which scared Stan more than anything. Kyle’s English and art classes were less impressive, and Stan knew that he did not envy Kyle for the coming year with all the homework he’d undoubtedly be doing.

 

Because of Kyle’s greater focus on science than anything, they mostly went around the second building for him, wandering in and out of classrooms here and there so Kyle could establish exactly what he’d be doing. They talked the whole time about just whatever, mostly movies, of which their tastes were super similar, and music, which they were almost complete opposites, and everything just seemed peaceful. Around them, all the other students were doing something similar, some by themselves and some in groups as they scanned their schedules and wandered the halls.

 

They went through Stan’s schedule second, which part of him resented. He’d wished that he’d gone first so that his academic performance didn’t pale in comparison to Kyle’s, but even if the redhead thought that way at all, he didn’t voice it. Stan’s classes were far more colorful and all over the map, from his simple English III to his Japanese I, but with choices like Contemporary World Issues, Earth Science and Song Writing, they had to wander almost the entire grounds just so he could see everything.

 

Throughout the day, Stan soaked in Kyle’s good mood like sunlight. Something about Kyle - happy Kyle, at least - captured his empathy more than any other person he’d ever met. Usually it was only something he could get from animals, or rarely his friends at school, but with Kyle, Stan’s own emotions were paralleling themselves to his the way it normally would with Sparky. Like he was reminding him of the best things about home. It was weirdly wonderful, and the hours flew by without Stan even realizing it.

 

With a final stop at the cafeteria at six for some dinner, grilled cheese and tomato soup for Kyle and a burger and fries for Stan, they made it back to the dorms by eight as the main grounds got less and less crowded. Curfew was at 9:30, as they’d been reminded, and god knew what kind of staff the school had for students that wanted to ignore that rule.

 

Stan’s first impression when the entered their dorm was that almost everyone was upstairs already. Everything on both the first and second levels were lit and active outside of the dorm office and shop, and before they could go up the stairs, Kyle stopped them.

 

“Hey, let’s go check out that fancy TV they’ve got in that one room,” he said, and Stan immediately agreed with him.

 

“Oh, yeah, I totally forgot about that.”

 

The rec room had other people in it, of course, but nobody had touched the TV. There were two girls sharing one of the laptops and laughing at something, while a group of boys sat at the table filling some kind of paperwork out.

 

They took over the center couch and flipped the TV on, and by the time they’d decided on an episode of Seinfeld that was already halfway done, the boys had up and left. It took them to the end of the episode, both settling into a concentrated silence, for the girls to notice the time and take their leave, as well.

 

Stan checked the clock up on the wall. 9:10. He and Kyle had been hanging out for close to eight hours, but it didn’t even feel like it. He had no idea how well Kyle handled sentimental crap, but decided to try and thank him for his friendship or something. It was the most he could do.

 

“Hey, so,” he began, catching the redhead’s attention away from the screen. “You’ve been really cool today.”

 

Kyle smiled. “Yeah, you too.”

 

“Why’d you want to hang out with me, anyway?” Stan asked, and Kyle hesitated.

 

“Wanna hear the lame but true answer or the less lame but dishonest answer?”

 

Stan grinned and sat up. “The first duty of every officer is to the truth, whether it's scientific truth or historical truth or personal truth.”

 

“Who said that, Winston Churchill?”

 

“Captain Picard, actually.”

 

Kyle let out one large guttural laugh, flopping back against the sofa. “Oh my god, you’re a Trekkie.” They sat there as Kyle deliberated, but it didn’t take very long. “Fine. You reminded me of Ike.”

 

Stan thought back to Kyle’s weird and impish little brother and wondered if that was a compliment or not.

  
“Plus,” Kyle continued, “you looked nervous. I can’t do the empathy thing, but I could see that you were needed a little push to get past it. Was I right?”

 

“Yeah,” Stan said, knowing Kyle was right. “I think so.”

 

“Thank god. I wasn’t lying when I said I was shit at meeting new people. My friends back in California are mostly just assholes I go to school with. But you guys are cool.”

 

“Except Cartman, that is,” Stan laughed, and Kyle frowned.

 

“Do you know what that asshole’s problem is?” he asked, sounding genuinely curious. “Because I sure don’t.”

 

Stan shrugged. “I don’t know, dude. My empathy’s way more accessible to animals, not douchebags. Just ignore him, he probably gets off on the attention.”

 

“You’re probably right.”

 

There was a question, one that had been in the back of Stan’s mind since day one of this whole mutant thing, back when he’d gotten that letter, and it was suddenly back and determined. It bit around his consciousness and prodded him, demanding that he should get Kyle’s opinion. Kyle was Stan’s friend, he was cool and smart and fun to be around, but they barely knew each other.

 

Stan bit his lip, and knew he had to try it, anyway.

 

“So how’d your parents react? When you told them about being a mutant.”

 

It was a hard question to answer, Stan knew, but he needed confirmation that he wasn’t the odd one out for feeling the way he did. He thought back to Butters, telling everyone that his parents wanted him to “get rid of it”, like his mutation was a disease.

 

Like he was diseased.

 

Kyle himself paused, looking as though he were mentally clawing for the right answer.

 

“Well,” he began, “to be honest, they didn’t know until about five months ago. See, my mom’s kind of crazy. Well, strict. She’s super pro-mutant and super short-sighted. Ike, and I, well…” Pause. “We both wanted to keep our mutations as far away from our mom as possible. We didn’t want her using us for her own gain, even if she wouldn’t mean to do it that way. I love her of course, but, I dunno, when they did find out, she was mad, not because we were mutants, but because we didn’t tell her. And my dad has no spine when it comes to her, he just sort of seemed cool with it.” He hesitated to let his answer sink in before, “Why do you ask?”

 

“I didn’t tell my parents until just recently, either,” Stan stated, happy to finally be getting this out. “I just kind of feel like my mutation is just a part of me, like my taste in music or the color of my hair. It never really occured to me that I should be open about it. Like, should I be looking at myself differently now?”

 

Kyle’s laugh for a response surprised him. Stan looked up to see the redhead stretch his arms and get up onto his feet. He was smiling, and Stan felt warm surging through him.

 

“No offense, dude, but I think you’re overthinking it. You’ve got an amazing power, yes, and no matter how you feel about it, your family and friends and everyone here knows about it. It’s on your medical record. And really, your mutation is pretty useful. Veterinary schools would probably kill to get you to study with them. Hell, I bet you could get a great career in animal science.” He held out his hand for Stan to take, which he did, and soon they were both standing. “So don’t worry about it. But I suck major ass at giving good advice, so don’t listen to me.”

 

Kyle totally wanted Stan to listen to him and take his advice, but his attempts at being consciously humble were genuine, so Stan smiled.

 

“Says the guy who wants to be a brain surgeon. So, you gonna look into that job thing, too? The one in that nearby town?”

 

“No,” Kyle stated plainly. “My mom doesn’t want me distracted from my studies. And really, I kind of agree.”

 

“Don’t you want some extra money?”

 

Kyle flashed Stan a look he couldn’t read as he pulled his paperwork from his pocket. “My parents set up that allowance thing for Ike and I. My dad’s a lawyer, and we live in downtown San Francisco. I’m fine. So, what room are you in?”

 

“4-17,” Stan answered, the idea of Kyle being rich throwing him off balance.

 

“Damn, I’m in 3-12. At least we’re pretty close.”

 

They meandered their way to the stairs and made it up a flight as Stan scanned his papers. “Oh, hey,” he said, “It says who our roommates are.” He paused to read the name. Kenny McCormick. “Oh, cool, Kenny’s my roommate.”

 

Kyle stopped and turned on the front of his boots to face Stan, his eyes wide and curious. “Wait, it says who our roommates are?”

 

“Yeah, right there.” Stan took Kyle’s paper to show him, but pulled back when he saw what was written there. “Oh, god.”

 

“What?” Kyle asked, ripping the paper back. Stan barely had time to react before Kyle had crumpled it up in his fist and took off running up to the third floor. “Shit!”

 

“Dude, wait!” Stan followed, moving up the next flight of stairs and into the boy’s dorm. Since everyone was still in the process of both moving in and meeting each other, almost all the doors were open and the hallway was littered here and there with suitcases that were still waiting to be unpacked. Kyle didn’t seem to have much of a problem finding his room, and Stan almost tripped over three different backpacks by the time he’s managed to catch up.

 

Once he’d reached Kyle, the redhead had already procured his room key and all but smashed the door in, seething with an unsettled bitterness. He needed proof that the paper was right, that he had every right to be upset.

 

Cartman had beat them to room 3-12, each and every one of his bags open with his things casually thrown all over the place, especially over the other bed. Kyle stormed into the room and Cartman turned to give him a sickly sweet smile.

 

“Welcome home, roomie,” he cooed, and when he noticed Stan at the door, his eyes lit up. “Oh, and you brought your new boyfriend to the housewarming party.”

 

Stan took a few steps inside, curious as to what would possibly happen, and watched Kyle from a safe distance.

 

“No,” was the first thing that came out of Kyle’s mouth. He turned away, grabbing into his pocket for his phone, and Stan almost took a step back at Kyle’s frighteningly angry expression. “There is no fucking way in hell that I’m going to be stuck with you all semester.”

 

“It’s a year-long thing,” Stan chimed in, which caused Cartman to bust out laughing and Kyle to snap.

 

“Who do I need to call?!” Kyle snarled, marching past Stan and back from where he’d come as he pulled his phone up to his ear. “I am calling somebody!”

 

The other students all stopped what they were doing at the sudden commotion and came to watch the show from their doorways. Stan wandered after Kyle back down the corridor, almost thrown off by the audience they’d gotten. Kyle himself either didn’t notice or didn’t care, as he marched back towards the stairs without even bothering to acknowledge any of them.

 

Stan watched bemused as Kyle found the dorm office closed on the first floor and dialed their number in a blast of enraged energy. He thought about Kyle telling him about his mom, how “crazy” she was, and knew immediately that it was an inherited trait. Kyle was super scary when he was mad, and damn if he didn’t have psychic powers to make himself look all the more terrifying.

 

“Are you sure you can’t do anything tonight?” Kyle asked into the phone. Stan had sat himself on the bench outside of the office and watched Kyle make frantic conversation with the poor soul on the other end. He sounded almost desperate, and was trying to work with the person he’d probably woken up or torn away from a TV drama.

 

“Well, not exactly, but…” Kyle trailed off, absently swaying from one foot to another, before some kind of compromise was made. “Fine,” he sighed. “So, okay, fill out the slip and give it to the dorm supervisor. Fine. Thanks.” He hung up, and looked to Stan for some sympathy. Stan figured it was well-earned, so he kept to Kyle’s side as they again ascended the stairs back to level 3.

 

“They can’t do shit. Not tonight, anyway.” Kyle clicked his tongue, his nose wrinkled and eyes narrowed. “Just my luck I get stuck with the anti-semitic asswipe as my roommate.”

 

“It’s just one night,” Stan said in condolence. They made it back to Kyle, and technically Cartman’s, room and Stan tried reassuring his new friend with a smile. “Hopefully they can get you moved tomorrow.”

 

“Easy for you to say,” Kyle said. “Your roommate isn’t Cartman.” He sighed, moved to unlock the door, and flashed Stan a meek smile. “See you tomorrow?”

 

“Yeah,” Stan said with a slight grin of his own. “Night.”

 

Stan looked back as he made his way down the hall, but Kyle had already entered 3-12, and Stan wished his new friend a silent good luck for the potentially rough night. He made his way up the stairs at a slow and even pace, watching as doors closed all around him. No teenager in their right mind would be asleep by 9:30 normally, but curfew was a rule, and Stan assumed everyone must have been exhausted from their travels, anyway.

 

Finally, Stan found himself in front of 4-17. He groped into his pocket and found the key card, clicking it open and letting himself in. For the most part, he hadn’t really been expecting anything, but what he saw struck him as odd. Kenny was there, asleep in his bed wearing nothing but the same pair of jeans he’d worn that day with every single light left on. Stan checked, and found that not even the bathroom light was an exception. He switched it off and moved into the main space, silently wondering if he was the odd one for needing complete darkness while trying to sleep.

 

As he approached, he heard the sounds of Kenny softly snoring and listened to it as he rummaged through his luggage for his pajama bottoms.

 

“You’re all really weird,” Stan found himself telling the sleeping Kenny for no real reason. He found his flannel bottoms and hopped into them as he looked around the room. His room, for the next ten months. It was the exact same as everyone elses’, not that big but not that small and almost entirely white. There was window in between the two beds, but when Stan tried peering out of the glass to see the room’s view, he found that the dark of night had made it impossible for him to take in the view.

 

All of Stan’s things had made it, all four bags, three pillows and old school boombox sitting comfortably at the bottom of his bed, while Kenny’s…

 

Stan’s thoughts trailed off as he looked to the end of Kenny’s bed and saw three bags, backpacks, and nothing else. His eyes moved along the walls and noticed Kenny had no posters. His desk had nothing on it, nor did his nightstand. Kenny barely had anything.

 

Stan sucked back some air, trying to forget that particularly uncomfortable thought. Maybe Kenny was still waiting for the rest of his things to get there. Jumping to conclusions wasn’t something Stan should be doing.

 

He plugged his phone into its charger and checked his messages. Three texts, two from his mom-

 

 _How are you doing, sweetie?_ and _Don’t forget to call me!_

“Shit,” Stan muttered under his breath. He'd completely forgotten. He quickly typed her a message.

 

_So sorry mom, I got distracted. New friends to meet and schedule to figure out. It’s curfew and my roommates sleeping, I don’t want to wake him. Call you tomorrow morning definitely!_

 

The third was from his sister.

 

_Hey twerp, mom called me and was all nostalgic and shit. Don’t fuck this up. See you at Thanksgiving._

 

For some reason, Stan smiled at this one. Shelly was even more unsentimental than he was, and he figured that this was her way of being nice. Stan’s leaving home early must have really had its affect on his mom, though, and Stan couldn’t help but think up an image of his mom calling Shelly and talking about her memories of their childhoods until Shelly couldn’t take it anymore. Her use of the word “twerp” even reminded him of Kyle casually calling Ike a brat and an asshole just as casually as if he’d called him anything else, and something about that made him like the text all the more.

 

He set down his phone, retrieved his toothbrush and toothpaste from his backpack, and passed the snoring Kenny to go to the bathroom. When he’d returned with his newly cleaned mouth, he’d gotten another message.

 

_If not, then I’m calling you! I mean it! Love you xoxo_

 

Setting his alarm for 9 and worming into bed, Stan’s mind raged about the details of his day as he yawned and tried to get himself to fall asleep. The day had been weird, but nothing about it felt disingenuous. Everything had really fallen nicely into place. Stan almost already felt at home, like he’d known Kyle and Kenny and Clyde and all those other guys for a while now.

 

Comfortable.

 

Yes, that was it. Stan was comfortable.

  
As it turned out, it was Kenny’s rhythmic snoring that got him to drift off without him even realizing it.

 

* * *

 

_But the foundation is crumbling_   
_Becoming one with the ground_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, more setup. Can you tell I'm more comfortable with dialogue than anything else?
> 
> *Hint: Chapter titles are based on songs, and the end text is lyrics that are either foreshadowing for future plot points or fit with the theme of the chapter. They are also good songs, give them a listen while you read if you want.
> 
> I probably won't update until January, so have a wonderful holiday, everyone!


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